


Last Smoke Before the Snowstorm

by moonstones42



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, M/M, references to past sexual abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-25
Updated: 2014-06-22
Packaged: 2018-01-02 13:02:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 35,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1057089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonstones42/pseuds/moonstones42
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Laura Adler has come to terms with her past and is ready to reconnect with her older sister. But when she arrives at Irene's house and is greeted by Sherlock and John, her life is forever changed by the cold-hearted detective and his kind blogger. Their lives intermingle and overlap during the hunt for Irene, and once the case is over the three come to need each other both emotionally and physically. But as Sherlock comes to grips with his newly discovered passions and Laura struggles to deal with her traumatic upbringing, the side-effects of sentiment end up destroying everything they hold dear.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Home Invasion

Laura flashed the cabbie a strained smile as he hefted her luggage from the boot and onto the curb. Glancing up at the familiar house with another barely repressed twinge of resentment, she knew the ravenous pack of butterflies that had plagued her stomach for the duration of the cab ride wouldn’t be surrendering anytime soon. She fought hard to control the flood of memories that came along with returning to the house where she’d lived during her last two years of secondary school; the numerous ups and downside she’d experienced here were now suddenly just as real to her as they’d been the day she’d run away.

Laura shivered involuntarily, pushing her memories aside to instead focus on counting cab fare into the expectant hand of the driver. As she watched the taxi make its way down the street, she forced down the desire to call him back and ask him to take her as far away from this place as possible.  But she forced down all feelings of cowardice and turned away from the street to clamber up the small flight of steps with her bags.  She ignored the newly installed intercom system to instead fumble with her key in the worn lock until she heard the familiar click.

The moment Laura stepped into the spacious atrium, she knew something wasn’t quite right. The house was abnormally quiet, the atmosphere cold and stilted in the absence of the smooth jazz that usually drifted through the air. She left her belongings by the door, but was only able to take a few steps towards the living room before an unfamiliar man came trotting down the stairs. She had just enough time to take in his short stature and sandy brown hair before he became aware of her presence as well. He scanned her form shamelessly, and she fought the need to wrap her arms close around her body in a futile attempt to ward off his gaze. He walked over to her with a nearly indistinct limp, his stare far from leering but not entirely decent either.

“Hello,” he said with a faint smile, his lips quirking up ever so slightly to one side. He offered her his hand before adding what was clearly meant to be a suave introduction of, “John Watson.”

“Hello,” Laura replied politely, taking his warm hand in hers as she glanced over his shoulder towards the staircase. “You aren’t one of Irene’s clients, are you?”

The man, John, gave her a curious look. No, he was trying far too hard to catch her interest for him to have been one of Irene’s. A client would have stepped far too close to her, touched far too much of her, and smiled far too eagerly with empty eyes and bared teeth. A client would have invaded her space and degraded her dignity without a second thought, assuming that everything in this house was here for their express pleasure. And, when Laura had lived here all those years ago, she supposed that had actually been true.

Remembering that John was in fact still standing in front of her, she decided to rephrase her question and ask directly who he was and why he was here. What business did he have with Irene if not negotiations in the bedroom? But before Laura got the chance, she was interrupted by the creak of another pair of footsteps on the staircase.

Glancing over John’s shoulder, she caught sight of a man whom she immediately pegged as another one of Irene’s recruits from her girlfriend’s modeling company. Irene had spent months scouring Abigail’s employees for a new business partner— and judging by this man’s halo of dark curls, long and clearly agile body, and alien-like face made up of a conglomeration of sharp and sloping features, Laura was sure he’d been her final pick.

“Sherlock,” John huffed in frustration, giving Laura a glance of longing regret as if he’d been called away from Christmas dinner to coax his wayward cat down from a frozen tree. He hurried over to support the stumbling model dressed, unsurprisingly enough to Laura, in a priest’s cassock. Sherlock, the man with a name just as unique as his appearance, pushed John away to instead stagger towards Laura.

“The sister!” Sherlock slurred, his pale blue eyes spinning unsettlingly in their sockets as he approached. Laura backed away quickly. The blanket of intrigue that had draped all the oddities of this situation as she’d spoken with John was now ripped away to reveal the clear and present possible danger of the situation.  

“Sister!” Sherlock repeated forcefully, but Laura ignored him in favor of taking another step back.

“Sorry, who did you say you were again?” She asked John, trying to sound calm and unsuspecting so as not to set off the possibly raving lunatic.  

“Where is she?” Sherlock demanded before John could answer, and Laura felt her stomach drop as she finally took heed of his inebriated words.

“Irene? You mean she isn’t here?” Laura felt a sudden surge of panic as she realized exactly what was going on here. These men weren’t Irene’s guests--she never allowed anyone through the door if she wasn’t home. Clearly they’d broken into the house in search of Irene. But what would they do now that they’d been unsuccessful in locating her?

“Sherlock calm down, you’re scaring her,” John growled, gripping the taller man’s arm and pulling him back towards the staircase. “Just sit down and try to relax,” Laura heard John mutter soothingly, and she was momentarily distracted by his gentle tone. But she was quickly reminded of the potential danger of the situation when she heard the wail of sirens in the distance.

“Where’s Abigail,” she demanded, her voice rising in pitch and volume. Perhaps her sister’s girlfriend had let these men in to her their house, breaking Irene’s strict protocol because of some sort of special circumstance? It had been over a decade since Laura had wanted so desperately to believe her own blatant lies.

“Sorry, who?” John asked distractedly, attempting to keep a nearly unconscious Sherlock from sliding completely from the steps and onto the tiled floor. Fear tightened its grip on her stomach as John tossed her only feeble explanation out the window. Who were these men, what did they want, and what were they willing to do to get it?

Laura was so high-strung and immersed in her own agitated thoughts that she nearly let out a startled shout when a pounding sounded on the door.

“Police—open up!” a gruff voice shouted, and Laura immediately looked to John. She expected him to run, to drag Sherlock into the coat closet nearby, or even to pull out a gun and force her to call out that everything was fine. But John did none of these things. Instead, he stood at his full height and looked totally at ease as he gestured calmly towards the door.

“Go on—open it.” Laura stared at him in disbelief, unable to comprehend his simple instructions.

“You want me to...to open the door for the police? You, the man who’s obviously broken into my sister’s house, want me to just...let them inside?”

“Yes,” he told her, his tone firm albeit a bit distracted as he tried to more comfortably position the unconscious man stretched out on the floor beside him.

She was about to demand that he explain what was going on, why he and Sherlock were here and what was wrong with the taller man, but a second knock on the door robbed her of the opportunity.

“Open up or we’re breaking the door down!” the same voice thundered, and she tossed John one more quick glance, giving him a chance to change his mind. It of course made no sense for her to give a burglar a second chance, but something about a robber wanting the police to arrive just seemed so wrong to her. But when John caught her eye, he merely waved her towards the door with an expression of mild impatience.

Fine, Laura thought as she more or less stomped over to the door. If John wanted the police, he would have them.

A pack of men swarmed past her and into the house the moment she twisted the knob, and John pointed casually to the living room as if teams of armed men rushed at him every day of the week.

“Call Inspector Lestrade,” he instructed one of the heavily padded men passing by, and the officer nodded dutifully. Laura looked on in incredulity as the men rushed through her sister’s house, boldly bursting into rooms she’d never dared set foot into when she’d lived there as a teen. She was so absorbed in the spectacle and trying to decipher what sort of authority John held over these men that she jumped in surprise when a middle-aged officer touched her arm.

“Hullo Miss, I’m officer Rooney. I’m supposed to take you back to the station, just so we can ask you a few questions. If you’ll please come with me…” he sounded friendly enough, and he wore a smile spread across his pudgy face. Finally, an average, completely mundane human being to bring a bit of normalcy back into her life.

“Yes, of course,” she replied without thinking, and she turned away from the scene just as a voice shouted, “Boss, we’ve got four bodies in here!” Laura stopped dead in her tracks, a bullet of fear shooting through her as she realized the two men she’d just been alone with for five minutes had murdered four people. Perhaps even...no, they’d been looking for Irene, which meant she had to have still been alive. But Abigail...

Laura’s eyes scanned the room in search of the two intruders she’d found in her sister’s house, but there was no sign of them. She gripped the officer’s arm, and could tell by his startled expression that her eyes were as wild as her pulse.

“Those two men—Sherlock and John, John Watson—where are they? You’ve got to find them! They’re the ones who did this!” The man’s face softened in concern, and he let out a slight chuckle.

“They’ve just left with Inspector Lestrade,” he said calmly, taking her by the elbow and leading her towards the door.

“So they’ve been arrested,” she clarified, her breathing rate lowering back down towards normal as the panic beginning to fade a little. “Then I’d like to see the...the bodies. To make sure a friend of mine is still alright, she might’ve been here when they..”

“The victims are all male, no need to worry dear,” the officer told her as he accepted a slip of paper passed to him by a policeman as he jogged by. Laura’s head felt light with relief.

“And of course Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson haven’t been arrested,” the man added with a laugh as he and Laura approached the car. All feelings of relief vanished as Laura pulled away from him in shock, as infuriated by his patronizing tone as she was horrified by his words.

“What is that supposed to mean?” she demanded, and he frowned at her curiously.

“Well we can’t very well take them into custody if they’re going to help us with the case!”

Laura stared at him in disbelief; surely no one, not even an officer of Scotland Yard, could be that dense.

“But they did it!” she cried, struggling to find a way to make this imbecile see sense. “They’re the ones who committed the crime!”

“Of course they didn’t! Sherlock Holmes is a consultant of the Yard for goodness sakes! He’s solved dozens of cases for us; of course he didn’t do this,” the man told her.

Laura gaped at him. Then, pushing past him, she climbed into the back of the police car and gestured for him to take his place behind the wheel.

“Take me to Scotland Yard,” she demanded. “I want someone with more than half a brain made of jelly doughnuts to explain what the hell just happened here.”

*~*~*~*~*

Laura stared blankly at the ceiling, having given up on entertaining herself once she’d memorized every stain on the walls and every dent in the table. She’d fleetingly considered making faces and lewd gestures in the large one-way mirror to her left, but the side of her with more maturity than a twelve year old boy quickly shot down that idea. She wasn’t sure of how long she’d been in the interview room, seeing as her phone had been confiscated upon her arrival. But she knew it had to have been at least an hour if the growling of her stomach was any indication.

Laura had intended to devour one of Abigail’s famous tofu meat pies upon arriving at Irene’s; instead, she’d been offered stale doughnuts and weak coffee, both of which she’d declined.  Now, glaring up at the watermarked tiles overhead, she was beginning to regret her culinary snobbery. She let out what was possibly her 15th sigh since the interviewing officer had left the room some forty-five minutes ago, but immediately perked up at the faint sound of approaching voices. Shifting in her seat, she strained to make out any available snippets of the approaching party’s conversation.

“…moping in there ever since she got here…tried to get her to go away…couldn’t give her any answers… wouldn’t see reason, so we just left her in here… your problem now…” The door opened without warning and Laura spun around in her chair, desperate to talk to anyone who could shed at least a little more light on the situation.

She let out an audible grunt of surprise at the sight of John Watson standing in the doorway.

He gave her a smile that was so ridiculously cheeky she honestly wasn’t sure if she wanted to glare or smile back. Either way, there was no chance of keeping her face impassive. She rose from her seat and looked him straight in the eye.

“Explain. Now,” she demanded harshly, and his smile only widened. He then glanced at the man beside him, whom Laura had completely overlooked. He was tall, with dark hair, a weasel-like face, and an unpleasantly nasally voice.

“Detective Anderson here says they’re going to be needing this room for other interviews. So if you want more of an explanation, we can’t talk here,” John told her, his voice now oddly apologetic. “Also, they’re going to send your belongings back to your flat once they’ve had a quick look at them—you know, just protocol.”

Laura stared at him, her brain still trying to decide exactly how to process his words, actions, everything; nothing about him made any sense to her. One moment he’d been an intriguing stranger, then he’d transformed into a strangely calm criminal—and now he was working with the police? Anderson cleared his throat, and she felt a wave of embarrassment flow over her when she realized she’d been openly staring at John for far longer than was socially acceptable.

“I have to keep an eye on Sherlock, so we’ll have to go back to my flat, if that’s ok with you,” John told her, and she could tell from his tone that he’d already said the exact same phrase at least once.

“Right, ok. That’s fine with me,” she said in what she hoped wasn’t too weird of a tone, doing her best to keep her voice measured.

“Perfect,” John said with a nod, and she followed the two men out of the windowless room.

*~*~*~*~*

John held open the door to the cab for her, offering a polite smile and gesturing for her to enter the car first.

“Thanks,” Laura muttered, careful not to look at him for fear of making an even bigger fool of herself as she climbed into the backseat. She watched him climb in after her, but immediately averted her eyes when he looked up and caught her staring. She knew there was no way watching his every move was going to help her figure out who he was or what was going on, but she still found it unreasonably difficult to keep her gaze focused on anything else.

She pulled out her phone to distract herself, opening up her inbox to check her messages. She let out a huff of disappointment when it became clear that Irene had no intention of letting her know where she was or what was going on.

“So…” she began after a few moments of silence, feeling the need for discussion but totally at a loss for what to say. John looked up from his folded hands expectantly, almost as if he’d been patiently waiting for the chance to engage in conversation. “Is Sherlock alright?” she asked politely, recalling the man’s alarming behavior back at Irene’s house.

“Oh, he’s fine,” John assured her, waving away her question. “Your sister…well I’m pretty sure she drugged him right before she escaped through the window, but it seems like pretty harmless stuff. He’s been a bit delusional, which the boys from the Yard seemed to enjoy, but that’s all.” Laura cringed when he finished speaking; the more obvious it became that Sherlock and John hadn’t been the bad guys in this situation, the more embarrassing the whole thing became. Leave it to Irene to cause such a dramatic scene—only she could manage to assault an innocent man and spurr a full-blown police investigation while simultaneously turning Laura’s day completely upside down.

“Oh god, I’m so sorry,” Laura told him sincerely; she was more than used to apologizing for her sister’s recklessness and complete disregard for the convenience and even safety of others. Clearly these two men had been working with the police in an attempt to find Irene, and her sister had responded by drugging one of them and then disappearing without a trace. Perfect.

“It’s not your fault,” he told her with a shrug, and she was glad to see that he didn’t seem worried or upset. Remembering how gently John had spoken to and cared for the dark haired man, Laura felt another flare of embarrassment. Here she’d been, thinking John’s smiles had been at least a hint at flirtation; but he was clearly smitten with Sherlock—the man he was living with, for goodness sakes! She felt an overwhelming sense of self-targeted disgust as she realized she hadn’t changed at a bit since the age of sixteen: clearly running away from the problem hadn’t ridden her of her tendency to ignore the painfully obvious in favor of a more easily digestible illusion.

“You and Sherlock...” she began, clearing her throat when her voice faltered slightly on the last word. She couldn’t deny that she’d been at least a bit interested in John when she’d first met him, and even the possibility of him being a criminal hadn’t entirely dissuaded that initial pull. While the knowledge of his partnership with the police had given her a bit of hope, that spark had just been extinguished with the realization of his romantic partnership with Sherlock. “How long have you two been together?” she asked.

John blinked, then let out a chuckle as he shook his head.

“We’re not—we’re just flatmates. There isn’t anything going on between us.” He spoke quite convincingly, and Laura couldn’t help but think it was almost as if he was trying to persuade himself as well. His tone suggested that he made this statement quite frequently, as it was only natural to assume that two men who so clearly understood and cared for each other were in a committed relationship.

But Laura knew it was also entirely possible, albeit rare, for two people to be in a completely platonic yet devoted relationship. The thought that she wouldn’t really mind sharing John with Sherlock suddenly jumped to the forefront of her mind, but Laura quickly stomped it down. She had no right to think like that; she wasn’t part of John’s life, or Sherlock’s for that matter. She was simply another stranger, another passerby on the long, winding, unmapped road of life. She was someone to be met once, or maybe even twice if fate was in the mood, but then forgotten about and never seen again.  And Laura knew that was all she would ever be—that was all she could ever allow herself to be.

“Good,” she told John in response to his assurance that he and Sherlock weren’t together—at least not in the way she’d implied. John raised his eyebrows with a questioning smile. “I mean not good per se —I wouldn’t have a problem with the two of you being together. I just meant that…”

“I understand,” he told her kindly, in a noble attempt to save her from any further embarrassment. However, as Laura was sure he did indeed understand the true nature of her comment, his words only sent more heat rushing to her face.

“We’re here,” he announced a few moments later when the vehicle came to a stop, and she gratefully vacated the cab. Perhaps once they were inside they could start over, and she could pretend as if the string of embarrassing events that had occurred in the past twenty minutes hadn’t happened at all. John paid the cab fare, then led her down the relatively vacant street to a curbside sandwich shop.

“This is a rather nice spot,” she commented, trying to sound as casual as possible as she looked up and down the street.

“Cheers,” John said as he pulled out his keys, twisting one into the lock of a royal blue door labeled 221. “The building’s Mrs. Hudson’s’; she’s a sweet lady, although she can be quite tough when need be. You wouldn’t want to get on her bad side,” he told her as he closed the door behind them and led her up a dimly lit staircase. “You’d like her,” he added over his shoulder as they approached the landing.

“Maybe I’ll get to meet her someday,” Laura commented without thinking. But she wished she could have taken the words back a moment later, realizing too late how forward she might’ve sounded presumptuously inserting herself into John’s life. The last thing she wanted to do was come off sounding like Irene.

John’s eyes widened slightly in surprise as they stood before the closed door to the flat, but his face seemed to light up a bit. It could have just been Laura’s wishful thinking flaring up once more, but she couldn’t help thinking that perhaps he’d been looking for a sign, something to tell him that it was indeed alright for him to flirt with her. Laura had spent the last decade avoiding and shooting down the advances of men at every turn, so it wasn’t hard to believe that John had picked up on the ‘don’t approach me’ vibe she’d been sending out for so long it had become second nature. While keeping the advances of men as far away as possible had been her goal for the last thirteen years, it was suddenly painfully clear to Laura that she no longer wanted to be alone.

“Only if you’d like to,” John said nonchalantly enough; he was testing the water.

“Oh, she sounds fantastic; I’d definitely like to meet her,” she told him, and Laura hoped she wasn’t just imagining the way his dark blue eyes seemed to invite her in as he pushed open the door to the flat,  or the way his smile now seemed slightly different from the ones he’d given her before.

Irene had often told Laura about the game of cat and mouse— about how men loved the chase, how it was essential to be as elusive and therefore attractive as possible in their eyes. Laura had of course believed her sister to be the expert at all things romantic at the time. But now, staring after the doctor she’d found earlier that day in Irene’s house with his drugged detective of a flatmate, she knew that John was no ordinary man. Conventional flirtation games just weren’t going to cut it. Thankfully, Laura thought as she crossed the threshold, she was most definitely no ordinary woman.

Laura heard John let out a huff of frustration as she entered the flat behind him, and she peered over his shoulder into the train-wreck of a sitting room. “I’m terribly sorry about the mess,” John told her. He hurried over to remove a stack of manila folders from a maroon leather arm chair before offering the seat to Laura.

“It’s alright, I’ve lived in worse,” she told him with a smile. A moment later she caught sight of the kitchen. “Actually never mind; this definitely takes the cake,” she corrected, staring wide-eyed at the chaotic array of test tubes, petri dishes, and what appeared to be chunks of decaying something littering the table.

“Sherlock’s not big on housekeeping,” John muttered apologetically, and she gave him an incredulous look.

“Yeah, no kidding,” she said, rising from her seat. “Do you think he’d mind if I just took a look?” she asked, and he gaped at her.

“Uhm, yeah, go ahead,” he said after a pause, looking completely stunned.

“It’s just that I’ve always been insanely curious about even the most mundane things,” she told him as she peered into the microscope, fascinated by the tiny creatures that moved before her eyes despite her total lack of knowledge about what she was witnessing. “Do you know what all of this is for?” she asked, leaning in as close as she dared to get a better look at the thankfully odorless substance growing on what appeared to have once been a hunk of bread.

“It’s got something to do with a case,” John said, taking her arm and pulling her gently away from the table. She could feel the warmth of his fingers on her forearm through her blouse, and the unfamiliar pressure of another person’s touch sent a jolt through her body. Laura’s eyes immediately flew up to his face. John released his grip, and Laura momentarily considered leaning forward over the table again just to feel the warmth his hand on her arm once more. “You probably don’t want to get that close; Sherlock’s convinced the man died from a mysterious and undetectable substance in his lungs,” John told her, and she nodded as her rational side won out and she allowed him to lead her back to the living room.

“One of the police officers, Robby or something, mentioned that Sherlock was some sort of private consulting detective?” she asked once she was seated again, and John nodded. “I’ve never heard of anything like that; is it a really uncommon profession?” John shook his head, sitting down in the black leather chair across from her.

“He’s the first and only one. He will gladly brag about it to anyone who will listen—and even to those who won’t,” he told her, and Laura laughed.

“And what is it you do for a living? Are you a detective too?” Laura asked with a slightly teasing smile. There was something about John that told her this was most definitely not his day job, and she was keen to know how he’d ended up as the effective babysitter of a clearly unconventional detective.

“You caught me,” he laughed, holding his hands up in mock surrender. “Believe it or not, I actually work at a clinic in town. I started getting into the whole investigative work thing when I moved in with Sherlock,” he explained, and Laura let out a hum of surprise. It seemed oddly fitting though, that a man who clearly had troves of patience and spent his time looking after Sherlock would be a doctor by trade.

“Of course, I spend more time helping solve impossible cases than I do at the surgery,” John continued. “My boss doesn’t like it, but—“ he leaned forward conspiratorially, lowering his voice so that Laura had to lean in as well in order to hear him. “Don’t tell Sherlock I’m saying this, although I’m sure he already knows, but I’d rather chase down homicidal maniacs than prescribe allergy medication any day.”

She glanced down at his lips as he spoke, and although John was still at least a yard away, Laura had to force herself to sit back in her seat before her body could give into the desperate demands of the more carnal side of her brain.

“So you’re an adrenaline junky then, are you?” she asked in the same slightly mocking tone, and she laughed when he merely shrugged.

“I suppose you could say that. Although I am still quite cautious, mind you,” he said rather seriously, as if he wanted to make it clear that he wasn’t the reckless one. She knew he was of course referring to Sherlock, but Laura felt her heart skip a beat at the rather paranoid thought that John knew exactly how daring a part of her was eager to become.

But John licked his lips then, and she caught sight of what she knew he considered to be a stealthy glance at the expanse of skin exposed by her crossed legs. Laura suppressed a smile as she realized the rush of desire she was currently experiencing afflicted them both. She silently thanked Abigail for re-doing her wardrobe a few months prior; the model’s favorite black skirt was, judging by John’s wandering eyes and most likely wandering mind, doing its job quite well.

“A doctor and a consulting detective solving crimes together,” Laura said casually, although her voice sounded strangely loud to her ears after her silent mental reprieve. “It sounds like something straight out of a fiction novel. I’m not sure I’m really following; how did you two find each other? And what does any of this have to do with my sister?” John blinked rapidly as his mind returned to the conversation as well, glancing down at his watch and then back up at her.

“Well, it would really make the most sense if I started from the very beginning. But only if you’ve got the time; I don’t want to keep you.”

“I don’t have any prior engagements or anything; the only thing I’d had planned for today was visiting with my sister,” she told him, cleansing her voice of all traces of bitterness and shifting slightly in her seat to get more comfortable. Laura savored the unexpected surge of giddy power she felt when she crossed her arms over her chest and John’s eyes immediately flew to her bosom. He suddenly seemed to find the locket that rested just beside an unclasped button on her pale pink blouse to be the most fascinating item in the room.

“I want to know what’s going on here, and I’m willing to listen for hours if need be to get some answers. Besides,” she added, placing her elbows on her knees and leaning forward to rest her chin on her knuckles, “I’m deeply intrigued.”

*~*~*~*~*

“Wait, so you’re at the pool, with Sherlock pointing a gun at the bomb that was strapped to your chest, and his phone starts playing the Bee Gees?” Laura cried, laughter bubbling from her throat as she finally relaxed the death-grip she’d had on the leather armrests for the last few minutes of John’s tale.

“Yes!” John shouted, laughing so hard tears of mirth threatened to spill over his blond lashes. “It was literally the most terrifying, most hilarious moment of my life,” he gasped. “I mean it was terrible at the time, but now…god, Sherlock thought it was so annoying but I think it’s fucking priceless,” he laughed, and Laura got the feeling that he didn’t get the chance to express his mirth this freely as often as he’d like to—not specifically because of Sherlock, but because of the life he’d lived.  As far as Laura knew, going from successful army doctor in Afghanistan to wounded and alone in London to living with possibly the most serious man ever to grace the earth didn’t allow for much relaxation time.

“That has got to be the best story I have ever head. Not just the pool part, but all of it. Have you ever thought of writing it down?” she wondered, and her eyes widened in surprise when his face lit up.

“I have! I mean I’ve actually written everything, not just thought about it. I’ve got a blog,” he told her, and although his tone was only flecked with pride, Laura was genuinely impressed. Plenty of people documented their life experiences, but very few had lives worth reading about or knew how to make themselves seem interesting; Laura got the feeling John knew what he was doing and was quite good at it.

“Could I read it?” she asked as cautiously as she could manage, knowing from experience how touchy some could be about people they knew reading their writing. Although she didn’t really know him, Laura had to remind herself. John only told her all those things because he wanted to clarify his and Sherlock’s involvement in what happened earlier, that was all; there was nothing more to this.

Except there was, wasn’t there? She may not have wanted to accept it, but Laura could most definitely feel a distinctly different something in the air. She’d noticed a kind of change in the room’s atmosphere that she’d read about in novels but had never once believed was possible in reality.

“Yeah, of course,” John told her, leaping up for a pen and paper. Just then, a crash sounded from down the hall, followed by a distinctly masculine groan of “John!”

“He’s woken up again,” John said from where he stood at his desk, leaning ever so slightly towards the hallway as he glanced over at Laura apologetically. “I should go check on him.”

“Of course,” she told him, hurrying up from her seat as he scribbled down the name of his blog. “This was incredibly kind of you—explaining everything to me, letting me into your home, all of it. Thank you,” she said sincerely with a grateful smile. She hoped the time she’d spent at 221B had been enough to counteract whatever negative effects her earlier standoffish attitude might’ve had; even though she was sure she’d probably never see him again, she didn’t want to leave John with the impression that she was always as harsh and unyielding as she’d been back at Irene’s house.

“Kindness has nothing to do with it,” John told her quietly with that same new, not so innocent smile as he handed her a slip of paper. Laura felt heat rush to her cheeks at his comment, the quickly spreading blush a sensation she hadn’t experienced in years. But instead of shying away from his remark, Laura intentionally brushed her fingers against his as she reached for the paper.

“I put my mobile number on there as well,” he told her, and she looked up at him, pleasantly surprised by the hint of longing she could just make out in his gaze. “Just in case you have any more questions…” he clarified, his sentence trailing off as they continued to stare at each other. Their fingers were still touching, and Laura could have sworn he’d just begun to lean towards her, his lips parted ever so slightly, when another thud sounded from upstairs.

“I should go,” Laura told him, her voice coming out as a barely audible whisper as she pulled the paper entirely from his grasp.

“Right,” John said gruffly, clearing his throat and running a hand through his hair. “And I should go help…yeah. Cheers,” he finished weakly with a half-hearted wave, and she returned the gesture with a tentative smile before hurriedly vacating the flat.

Laura found herself racing down the stairs and out onto the street, and she was still panting even after the cab she’d acquired pulled away from the curb. She forced herself not to turn around with the juvenile hope of catching a glimpse of John. Instead, she slumped down in her seat, covering her face with her hands before letting out an exhausted groan.

It had been years since Laura had experienced any feeling even close to this; it was strange and nerve-wracking and terrifying and exhilarating, and she never wanted it to stop. Laura had no idea why, but although she had never once pursued a man in her entire life, today things had changed. It was with a jolt of fear mixed with excitement that Laura finally allowed herself to accept a fact she’d denied from the moment she’d first encountered the strangely alluring army doctor: she wanted John Watson.


	2. Third Day's the Charm

“You’re sure she didn’t touch anything,” Sherlock demanded again, ignoring John’s sixth sigh in half as many minutes as he carefully inspected each item scattered across the crowded kitchen table.

“Yes, Sherlock, I’m sure,” John said, his voice tight. Sherlock shifted at John’s words, standing upright and eyeing the older man. John’s face was flushed, his hands were clenched, and his feet were spread slightly apart: subconscious defensive position. John was offended by Sherlock’s unspoken yet still crystal clear opinion that The Woman’s sister had been of less than average intelligence—just as all John’s previous paramours had been.  

Sherlock bit back a sigh as he wondered not for the first time why John continued to seek out and engage in romantic relationships with women he so obviously wasn’t compatible with. The relationships never lasted and were pitiful even during their short durations, but John hadn’t stopped trying. He’d also never been afraid to admit that these relationships were flawed, that they were superficial and without substance. However, Sherlock got the feeling that John wouldn’t be so quick to agree if the detective made the same assumption about his encounter with this particular woman.

“You like her—more than all the others.” Sherlock intended the words as an inquiry but they came out as a definitive statement. John’s eyes widened slightly at the sudden change in subject, but he didn’t look particularly uncomfortable; in fact, his hands and jaw noticeably relaxed.

“I do,” John said, his lips quirking up to the side in a smile as if the realization was only now completely evident to him. “She’s…well, she’s different. It sounds stupid, but she’s not like anyone I’ve ever met,” John continued, and Sherlock racked his brain for another subject to discuss; the last thing he’d wanted was to get John talking about whomevershewas.

“Yes that’s lovely,” Sherlock said dismissively, striding over to the refrigerator in search of a more interesting topic. Oh yes—the fingers he’d borrowed from Molly had begun to decay quite nicely. Ignoring John, he pushed aside a stack of old solved cases to make room on the table for the newest object of his attention.

“Are you going to see her again?” The question leapt from Sherlock’s mouth without warning, causing the dark haired man to frown into his microscope. He had absolutely no interest in the sister—it was The Woman who’d been stimulating, dynamic, and interesting. What did he care if John saw her sister again? She was probably incredibly dull, and not to mention dense as well. As long as John didn’t put this new lover first—which he Sherlock didn’t believe he would, no matter how unique she supposedly was—Sherlock didn’t give a flying fart about whether or not John spent a small fraction of his time with some mundane female. John seemed to think he was entitled to at least a little time away from Sherlock every now and then, and although Sherlock didn’t particularly understand it, he’d refrained from intruding on most of John’s dates in an attempt to please the army doctor.

When John didn’t answer, Sherlock lifted his gaze momentarily to see him fingering the sleeve of his cable knit sweater and staring at his shoes with a slight frown.

“Well?” Sherlock asked insistently, immediately making another face; why did he feel the need to know the details of John’s pitifully repetitive romantic life? Perhaps it was because he could tell this time it was different—he’d seen the evidence and John had said so himself: she had affected John like no other woman before her. Perhaps Sherlock was merely attempting to learn, trying to reassess the situation now that things had changed. He told himself these things as he waited impatiently for John’s answer, but didn’t believe a word of it. That was the problem with genius, he knew well enough by now: it gave you the power to see through even your own lies.

“I’m not sure,” John said finally, pulling Sherlock out of his contemplation of his own mental conundrum. “I gave her my mobile number but she hasn’t called yet,” he added, and Sherlock felt a distinctively unfamiliar something stir in his stomach.

“Well perhaps she didn’t feel the same way about you,” Sherlock murmured, ignoring of the strange new bitterness the lie left behind as it exited his mouth. It was obvious that this woman, whoever she was, was attracted to John; not only had she agreed to come to the flat of a total stranger she’d discovered in her sister’s house, but she also hadn’t left when it had become clear John didn’t have any real useful information for her. But Sherlock voiced none of these observations, instead letting John wallow in self-doubt.

“It’s only been two days,” John huffed, his hands clenching once more as he practically threw himself into his maroon leather armchair.

“Of course,” Sherlock agreed in that facetious tone he’d mastered at age six. He quickly pushed away the knowledge that were his mother aware of his actions, she’d kindly remind him that he was being “cruel” again. Sherlock didn’t care if he slightly injured John’s pride or not; Sherlock wanted…well that was the problem, wasn’t it? Sherlock had no idea what he wanted.

* * *

Laura waited three days before dialing the number scribbled in distinctively med-school-graduate handwriting on a fragment of an old takeout menu. It wasn’t until she’d arrived home from a particularly long day of a editing an author’s soon-to-be sixth best seller that she’d allowed herself to think about the scrap of paper on her bedside table. Now, lying on her back with her limbs splayed out across her bed, she could hear Irene’s words of wisdom floating through her head.

“One day says desperate,” Irene had told her when, at the age of fourteen, Laura had asked her sister why she’d yet to call the twenty-something she was so melodramatically besotted with. “Two still says too eager, but four or more says he’s no more than an afterthought,” the infallible guru of all things male had told her, and the words had stuck.

After propping her head up on a pillow, Laura reached for her phone and the advertisement for Free Chinese Cuisine Wednesdays. Taking a deep breath, she whispered to herself that this would not end like her first attempt at a relationship—she was now stronger, wiser, and most importantly, away from that bloody house and all that it stood for. She then dialed the number, nearly dropping the phone when John answered on the third ring.

“Hullo?” his voice was thick and slow, and Laura was immensely grateful that he had no way of seeing the heat that flooded her cheeks and neck, or the way she squirmed beneath the blankets due to the bewitchingly viscous element that sleep had added to his speech.

“Oh, sorry—did I wake you? I can call back later if—“

“Who is this?” he asked gruffly, and she cringed, wishing nervousness didn’t have the ability to wipe all propriety from her mind.

“This is Laura, Laura Adler. We met a few days ago…” The realization that he might not even remember her hit Laura with far more force than it should have, evoking a pitifully hurt, but thankfully inaudible, huff of disappointment from her lips.

“Yes, yes, I’m being terribly rude,” he said after clearing his throat. Her delight that he did indeed remember her was slightly overshadowed by the fact that the gravely edge to his voice that she’d so enjoyed had now disappeared. “How are you, Laura?” he asked, and she smiled stupidly into the phone at the sound of her name on his lips.

“I’m well,” she told him, her nervousness beginning to dissolve. “I’ve spent the past few days editing an incredibly exciting novel; Graham Lucas is terrible with character development, but otherwise his language is almost hypnotic,” she told him, wanting to make sure he knew her profession wasn’t at all connected to Irene’s.

“You’re a book editor, then?” he asked, and she nodded, then added “yes,” when she recalled that he couldn’t actually see her. “And you’re probably a bloody good one if you’re working with Lucas,” he said, and she smiled. “I suppose you could say that,” she replied in an overly boastful tone, and he laughed.

“Well, Miss Adler, it’s suddenly become very obvious to me that I know absolutely nothing about you…” he began, and she smiled, glad that he’d picked up on her impersonation of Lucas’ rather pompous rhetoric and had joined in on the joke. “…while I have firsthand evidence that you know quite a bit about me. I hardly think that’s fair, do you?” he asked, and she laughed.

“Not at all, Dr. Watson. Perhaps we should do something to level the playing field,” she suggested, and she could hear the smile in his voice when he responded.

“My thoughts exactly. I know of the most exquisite dining residence; how dost thou feel about cuisine of the Italian variety?” he asked, and she giggled shamelessly.  

“I’ve never encountered anything I enjoyed more,” she managed to reply between bouts of laughter.

“Does tomorrow evening, Alfonso’s Italian Fine Dining at eight sound good?” he asked, returning to a normal tone once again.

“It sounds perfect,” she told him, grinning like a fool.

When she hung up the phone a few minutes later, Laura snuggled into her blankets, pulling the warm fabric close around her and allowing herself to relish in the first real contentment she’d felt in far too long.

*~*~*~*~*

“I honestly cannot believe you don’t like chocolate,” John cried for perhaps the tenth time that evening as they approached her flat. She laughed, shaking her head at him.

“Is it really that hard to comprehend? Some people detest asparagus—which I actually think is quite delicious. I just hate something a little less common,” she explained, but he still gaped at her.

“But—but it’s chocolate! All women like chocolate,” he said in earnest, as if she was defying some set law of the universe just by existing.

“Well clearly they don’t,” she said with a sweeping gesture at her torso as they made their way down the sidewalk. John had inadvertently chosen a restaurant only a few blocks from her home, and had offered to walk her back to her flat although it was out of his way. The night was rather chilly, and Laura was sure both of them used this coincidental change in weather as an excuse to walk even just a little closer to each other.

“Maybe you should just accept the fact that you clearly aren’t an ordinary woman,” he said with a smile.

“I think that would make things a lot easier for both of us,” she agreed, then slowed her pace as they approached her flat. She came to a halt just in front of her door, turning to face him but not yet reaching for her keys.

“Well, ignoring the fact that you completely invalidated my very limited understanding of women, I had a great time tonight,” John told her, his voice transitioning from comical to sincere as he spoke. She took a step towards him, not bothering to prevent her eyes from drifting down to his lips as she increased their proximity.

“Then maybe you need someone to teach you about what women are really like,” she said softly, and although her words came out far more provocatively than she’d intended, she didn’t regret her tone in the slightest. John’s eyes seemed to darken at her statement, and he tilted his head forward so that his lips were just barely out of reach.

“I get the feeling you’d make a fantastic teacher,” he whispered, the roughness in his voice causing her heart rate to spike even higher. He must’ve known what he was doing to her, Laura decided—she refused to believe anyone could be this bloody attractive on accident. His breath was enticingly warm on her face, and Laura found herself stepping forward again until she was able to feel the zipper of his jacket snag against her scarf.

“And I get the feeling you wouldn’t really care either way,” she murmured almost inaudibly, then tilted her chin upwards to brush her lips ever so lightly against his. John let out a small sigh in response, his eyes drifting shut as he leaned forward to press his nose against hers, silently insisting on a proper kiss. Laura repeated the action once more, testing his patience. John let out another noise, his breath now slightly hitched and his lips parted pleadingly. Laura smiled, then finally gave in and pressed her mouth against his. John responded immediately, reaching up to cup her face in his palm as he added even more pressure to the kiss. His hand was warm and soft against her cheek, and she leaned into it as her eyes drifted shut and John’s lips tugged at hers.

She slid her hand into his jacket, resting it against his shirt and savoring the rapid pounding of his heart beneath her fingertips. It took longer than it should have for Laura to realize that John’s other hand was on her waist, and he gently pulled her closer to him until her hand was sandwiched between them. The two of them stayed in this delightfully intimate position for some time, their lips and bodies pressed together in a warm and gentle embrace. Laura finally and reluctantly broke the kiss when she felt John’s phone begin to vibrate insistently against her hip.

“I hate that man,” John whispered, staring at Laura with an undeniable longing. He showed no sign of ever removing either of his hands.

“Promise me we’ll do this again and I’ll let you go,” Laura breathed, loving the exhilarating feeling of power that swept over her as she uttered the statement. John was completely free to leave— his hands held her tightly against him, not the other way around. But Laura knew she possessed a strange power over him. It wasn’t one she quite understood, or felt totally justified in using—but there was nothing on earth that had ever made her feel this alive. For the first time in her life, Laura felt as if she really understood why Irene had chosen the profession of a dominatrix; her sister had craved power, ever since they were little, and this was without a doubt the most exhilarating way of obtaining it.  

“Of course we’ll do this again. I’d do this every day if I could. And I mean that,” he said sincerely, and Laura placed a fleeting kiss on his lips.

“So would I,” she whispered, and she felt the pressure on her cheek increase as he attempted to bring her lips to his once more. “Go save Sherlock from himself,” she told him with a smile, before pulling away completely to unlock the door and leave him alone on the sidewalk.

The moment the door closed behind her Laura leaned back against it, struggling to control her breathing as she slid down onto the hardwood floor. She was overwhelmed, plain and simple. It had been so long since she’d experienced so many delectable things—emotions, desires, sensations, smells, urges, feelings, touches—all at once that her mind simply didn’t know how to process it all. She’d kept her cool around John, but now she was beginning to fall apart.

After a few minutes of struggling to calm herself down, Laura eventually managed to clamber off of the floor and into bed. And, as she lay there in her softest pajamas, Laura finally allowed that one feeling she’d been denying herself for so long to wash over her. Here and now, in the wake of the only genuinely enjoyable encounter with a man she’d ever experienced, Laura felt loved.

* * *

Sherlock shouldered open the door to 221B, his sore arms straining as he dragged the heavy cloth sack over the threshold. He stood and rested his hands on his hips for a moment, waiting for John to come padding over ready with a string of frustrated questions about why he’d thought it would be alright to arrive home late in the evening hefting an entire sack of femurs given to him by a grateful paleontologist. But the only detectable sound in the entire flat was that of the boiling vat of various chemicals he’d left on the stove before venturing out that morning. Sherlock left the bundle of bones near the door and stepped into the living room, scanning the area for any signs of his flatmate. John’s shift had ended a little over an hour ago, but the man had clearly yet to return home.

He supposed John could have merely remained at the surgery due to an increase in ailed patients, but he knew that the clinic always ran slow on Saturday nights. Sherlock wandered into the kitchen and began making himself a pot of chamomile tea. Sherlock couldn’t understand why, but he’d recently begun craving it the hot liquid, despite its rather calming effect on his nerves. His occupation required that he be constantly on edge, ready to analyze and observe at all times—but now, left completely alone in this flat while he knew John was off with her, all Sherlock wanted to do was relax. He sank down on the couch with John’s favorite mug and took a hesitant sip before covering his face with his hands and letting out a heavy sigh.

Sherlock no longer wanted to hunt and search for clues, to track down killers and criminals; he’d done it alone for years, but now the urge to roam the streets in solitude was gone. He needed someone to share his adventures with, and if the army doctor would rather gallivant around London with his new found love interest than with him, then perhaps these adventures weren’t even worth having. He pulled his phone from his pocket and dialed the most recently called number, deciding then and there that he’d never investigate another case again. When John didn’t answer, he threw the phone across the room with an angry grunt.  

He was being completely illogical, he knew. Sherlock had discovered at a very young age that one’s happiness didn’t depend on the actions and feelings of others. He’d been perfectly content with solitude all his life, and nothing had occurred to change this. But something had occurred—or someone, rather. Perhaps that was the problem. No, of course that was the problem. Once John had appeared in his life everything had brightened, but now it seemed that light was beginning to fade away…that the light was being taken away. By her.

Sherlock had already been stretched out on the sofa for two hours when he’d chucked his mobile into the bookshelf, and he didn’t bother to move as time dragged on. His thoughts followed the same circular pattern in his mind with no sign of stopping. He wanted John to return home, but spitefully hoped he’d never come back; he told himself he didn’t need the army doctor, but wished that blasted girlfriend of his would die in some tragic accident so John would belong solely to him again; he wanted to do something to get rid of John’s lover himself, but was too afraid to do anything that might upset his flatmate.

Sherlock’s mind was pulled from this destructive cycle at the sound of John’s cry of surprise as he stumbled over the threshold and into the sack of bones.

"What the hell is that?" John cried, the floorboards creaking as he stepped over the bag and into the flat. Sherlock didn't bother to look up, his arm still thrown lazily over his eyes as John entered the kitchen.

"So, why did you call me? What did you want?” John asked, and judging by his tone Sherlock assumed he was currently standing over him with his hands on his hips. Sherlock didn’t respond, and he heard John take in a deep breath. “You know what? I don’t even care. You completely ruined my date tonight, but I don’t care,” John said, his voice making it clear that he did in fact care very much. And he could tell by the faint smell of women’s lotion coming off of John’s clothing that while Sherlock may have cut the encounter short, he most definitely hadn’t ruined anything. John obviously wanted to make him feel guilty; clearly he’d yet to realize that anything involving that blasted girlfriend was only going to provoke one emotion from Sherlock: hatred.

“Did Mrs. Hudson make tea? And where’s my mug?" John called a few minutes later upon entering the kitchen, and Sherlock ignored him out of spite; if John had bothered to pay even the slightest bit of attention to Sherlock rather than focus entirely on his girlfriend, perhaps he would've picked up on Sherlock’s budding tea addiction.

"Must’ve been one hell of a date. Nice of you to finally return home,” Sherlock muttered with far more bitterness than he’d intended when John finally entered the living room. The faint scent of tea alerted Sherlock to the steaming generic mug in John's hand.

"Didn't realize you'd been waiting up," John said, his words accompanied by the sound of the cushions readjusting to his weight as he lowered himself into his red armchair.

“Of course you didn't," Sherlock said darkly, then stealthily glanced out of the corner of his eye to see John’s brow wrinkled in confusion.

"What's that supposed to mean?" he asked, and when Sherlock didn't reply John let out a heavy sigh. "Look, I'm sorry if you'd had some exciting adventure planned for tonight. But I’d already told Laura-"

"Without bothering to inform me," Sherlock interrupted, trying to keep as much emotion as possible out of his voice. He heard the distinct sound of leather cushions shifting as John repositioned himself in his seat.

"I'm sorry, but when did my 'mundane, pitifully repetitive love life' become any of your business?" he John asked, and Sherlock suppressed a smile; this is what he'd missed, what he'd needed. Not tea—tea was boring. But John? Oh, john was fascinating; all anger and rage and compassion and sentiment fused together to form quite the engaging specimen. The things Sherlock found terribly dull were stimulating once John was added to the mix, and characteristics that had always excited him were all the more interesting when manifested in the army doctor.

Ignoring his comment, Sherlock turned away from John and faced the wall. He knew he couldn’t honestly answer the question without even further altering their relationship; at this point voicing his dislike for John’s girlfriend would only worsen things between the two flatmates. He hated the idea of John spending time with his girlfriend, but he feared losing John far above all else. Perhaps, he thought as he heard John mutter something indistinct under his breath as he headed towards his room, happiness was slightly affected by the presence of others. Although never totally dependent on, Sherlock was quick to remind himself.


	3. Undisclosed Desires

Nearly four weeks passed before Laura saw John again. She hadn’t intended for them to go so long without meeting; in fact, she’d done her best to free her busy schedule as much as she could. But between John’s irregular shifts at the surgery, his adventures with Sherlock, and Laura’s recent flood of work that had come along with being assigned to an up and coming author, there simply hadn’t been enough hours in the day for romantic escapades.

However, Laura and John managed to converse on the phone often, alternating between bouts of teasing instigated by Laura and the more genuine, sweeter conversations John seemed so fond of. Despite their long and hectic days, they spent their nights sharing hopes and dreams and whispering childhood stories that to anyone else would have seemed boring and trivial. Laura would always make a sarcastic comment whenever she felt the conversation was drifting too close to the dangerous waters of those final two years she’d spent living with Irene—something she was sure John had picked up on. But he never once pried for information, taking her hints and skirting around certain topics in a way that clearly displayed his kind heart and generally understanding, patient nature.

When Laura and John finally met in person once more, it was more because of Sherlock’s unparalleled skill at driving John up the wall than a break in their work load. The lanky detective had taken to shooting holes in the wall yet again during a dry spell in their caseload, leaving John determined to get out of the house and away from his sulking flatmate. He’d called Laura just after she’d finished up another meeting with the promising writer, and she’d agreed to dinner and a trip to the cinema for the latest box-office hit.

Laura shook her head with a smile as they exited the theater. John continued to list each and every incorrect aspect of the movie—from how the Hollywood heartthrob had somehow managed to survive six days without a drop of water, to the ex-model’s dramatic proclamation that polar bears would be extinct by the end of the year.

“Honestly, the fact that they can pass that crap off as plausible and people actually buy it makes me want to take over the movie industry myself,” he huffed as they made their way down the street. He offered Laura his arm and she took it, loving the feel of his warm torso pressed against her side.

“You should become a director,” she told him jokingly, letting out a shameless laugh when she caught sight of the face he pulled. “You’re already a doctor and more or less a detective—why not just add another profession to the list?” she asked, and he raised an eyebrow in response.

“Take a look at my sleep pattern and you’ll have the answer to your question right there,” John told her, pulling her closer as the cold wind began to pick up.

“Maybe once you retire, then,” she suggested, and he snorted.

“You mean if I retire,” he corrected, and the slight grimace that flitted across his face made it clear that he was only half-joking.

“Judging by your diet and all the exercise you get gallivanting around with Sherlock, you’ll probably outlive us all,” she told him, and he looked down at her seriously.

“You know that isn’t what I meant,” he told her, and she looked away, pretending to marvel at the shops lining the street and the heavy rainclouds that pressed down from overhead. “Laura, my life, what I do with Sherlock…it’s dangerous; you can’t ignore that,” he said gently, but she shook her head.

“Just because it’s happening doesn’t mean I have to think about it,” she murmured, repeating the words that had been her personal motto since the age of seventeen when her life had really begun to spiral out of control. A few minutes passed before John responded, and when he did, he sounded so quiet and distant Laura wasn’t even sure if his words were meant for her ears.

“Laura…Laura, I wish there was something I could do,” he said, and his tone drew her gaze back to him.

“I don’t know what you mean,” she said thickly, and she fought to ignore the distinct sting in her eyes that ways preceded tears. John gave her a sad smile, slipping his hand around hers as they turned onto her street.

“You don’t have to tell me everything. Or anything, really,” he told her as they neared her door. He turned to face her when they reached the doorstep. “But when you’re ready to talk, I’ll be ready to listen.” Laura stared up at him, searching his dark blue eyes for any sign of dishonesty. When Laura found none, she felt as if something had suddenly broken inside of her. A warm sticky substance seeped from the crack, and it seemed to spread throughout her entire body.

“I want to help you get past whatever it is that’s holding you down,” John said earnestly. “I want you to be happy again,” he finished. And that’s when that something, whatever it was inside of her, shattered.

Laura gripped the front of John’s jacket with both hands, the cold metal of the zipper biting into her palms as her fingers curled into fists around the leather. He stumbled forward, his eyes wide with surprise as she pressed a shameless and urgent kiss against his mouth. Ignoring all pretenses, Laura roughly pushed her tongue between John’s lips and released one bunched fist to grip the back of his head, pulling his mouth even closer to hers. John responded immediately, pressing his entire body against hers until her back was flat against the door. She tugged at his hair, and grinned into the kiss when he let out a growl and pushed her even harder against the wooden panel.

Suddenly aware that they were still in public and that kissing so heatedly on a busy street was something Irene would probably do, Laura broke the kiss and pulled away from John. His eyes blinked open slowly, and his labored breathing mixed with hers in the light rain that neither had noticed as they’d kissed. “Come inside,” she whispered against his lips without thinking— without wanting to think.

“Do you want anything to drink?” Laura asked as she led John into her flat, shrugging off her coat and hanging his up as well. She then led him to the living room, gesturing for him to take a seat.

“I’ll take whatever you’ve got,” he said politely as he lowered himself onto the couch.

“Wine it is, then,” she said, heading into the kitchen. “Oh, and I’ve just gotten the most delicious merlot in the mail from my old room mate from uni,” she told him as she reentered the room and sat beside him with two glasses and a rather expensive looking bottle.

“Today must be my lucky day,” John said with that increasingly familiar elusive smile as he watched her pour the wine. Laura bit back an amused grin, watching John’s gaze run along her legs as if he intended to remove the black tights from beneath her short skirt with his eyes.

“I guess it is,” she said, not taking her eyes off of him as she sat back and took a sip of wine. John let out a soft groan of pleasure when the liquid entered his mouth, and his eyes fluttered shut as he took a second sip.

“This is amazing,” he said breathily when he removed the glass from his mouth. His tongue, now slightly purple, slipped out to slide slowly back and forth over his lips.

“Stop being such a tease,” Laura joked, and he looked at her with a smile; but desire was just as evident in her voice as it was in his gaze. The moment their glasses were safely placed on the coffee table, John and Laura both reached for each other.

After a frantic scramble for physical contact, Laura found herself straddling John’s thighs, her lips and tongue moving against his with the ferocious urgency of a starved lioness. Her hands were in his hair, and her fingers tugged mercilessly at the sandy locks as John’s eager noises flooded her ears. His hands slid down her back to firmly grip her ass, and Laura’s hips pushed forward instinctively in response to each invigorating squeeze he gave. She felt a rush of desire when she suddenly remembered there was more to John than just lips and hair—there were acres and acres of hot, pulsing skin still waiting to be explored. And tonight, Laura decided, would be the night she embraced her rightful role as conqueror.

Laura broke the kiss, dipping her head to transfer her attentions to Jon’s neck. He gasped as she began to suck and nip eagerly at the warm, tender flesh, his muscles tensing and his blunt fingernails digging into her ass. She removed her hands from his hair to pull at his collar instead, unbuttoning his shirt and dragging her hands up and down his bare torso.

“Oh, God,” she heard him pant, and she smiled into the crook of his neck as it became more and more evident how much power she held over John. This was her doing—Laura was making him feel this way, Laura and Laura alone. And not only did John want her, she wanted him as well. This was her choice.

John’s palms rutted against her tights when he slid his hands up her legs, the fabric chafing her thighs as his hands slid beneath her skirt. Laura leaned back to pull her grey jumper over her head, a new energy seeming to erupt from within John at the sight of so much of her skin on display. She flashed him a devilish grin, reaching up to remove her hairclip and shaking out her dark curls with a sultry stare.

“Oh and I’m the tease?” he panted with an arched brow, and she laughed, wrapping her fingers around his wrists. She pulled his hands forward, firmly placing one on the swell of her chest while bringing the other up to her face. One of Laura’s straps fell from her shoulder as John pushed his fingers inside the lacy material of her bra to explore her breast, his touch gentle and caressing. A moment later his tongue flicked out to wet his lips as he watched Laura gently brush the fingers of his other hand along her lips.

“We can both be teases,” she whispered breathlessly, before slipping two of his fingers into her mouth and lightly grazing the pads with her teeth. John gasped and his eyes fell shut as her tongue slid around and between his fingers, and the fingers of his other hand now dug into the flushed skin of her breast. Laura plunged his fingers completely into her mouth without warning, and John let out a low moan as she began to suck hungrily at them, her tongue rhythmically stroking up and down.

As if suddenly awoken from a daze, John jerked his fingers from her mouth and quickly unclasped and removed her bra. He then maneuvered so that Laura was pinned beneath him on her back, the two of them spread across the couch.

Her skin ached to be touched, and she greedily pulled him closer as his weight pressed her hips down into the soft leather. Laura’s fingers explored John’s shoulders and back, and she breathed in the generic-shampoo scent of his hair as he took his time kissing, licking, and nipping at her neck. One of his palms slid along her stomach as his other thumb skirted her nipple again and again, his mouth and hands working in tandem until every breath she released was accompanied by a moan. Then his hands were on her thighs and his mouth was on her stomach, and his breath tickled her bellybutton as he removed her skirt and tights in one quick motion.  John pulled her violet underwear down to her knees, and then his lips began the slow progression down her lower abdomen. His fingers slid between her thighs, pushing downwards until they tickled her clitoris.  

And that’s when Laura panicked.

Every muscle tensed as John’s fingers made contact with the skin there, and her mind was suddenly flooded with memories she’d spent over a decade trying to forget. Her thighs clenched shut and she kicked out blindly, doing all she could to get away from that familiar feeling that always came before the pain and tears. Laura scrambled up from the couch and away from John, running her hands through her dark, tangled curls in an effort to calm down. She kept her gaze fixed on the hardwood floor—she was far too afraid of what expression John’s face had taken on to even chance a look in his direction. She could remember the first boy she’d been with after running away from her life with Irene, the way he’d looked at her as if she was broken and not worth saving was forever burned into her mind.

“I’m sorry,” she panted, the bitter taste of tears already beginning to creep into her voice. The last thing she wanted to do was cry, but the prickling behind her eyes told her it was inevitable. “I’m so sorry,” she repeated, then let out a startled whimper when a set of fingers gently wrapped around her wrists and pulled downwards. Laura slowly lifted her eyes to meet John’s gaze, letting out a gasping laugh of relief at his expression. His eyes were kind and concerned—there wasn’t a single trace of disdain on his face. He lifted a hand to her cheek, his thumb swiping away a tear she hadn’t noticed escape her eyes.

“Don’t apologize,” he whispered, and her throat felt even tighter as the sincerity of his voice reached her ears. “You haven’t done anything wrong,” he insisted when Laura’s tears began to flow faster and harder.

“I wanted to…” she began, but her breath caught and her voice faltered. “I really did; but I…I couldn’t, I just…” she trailed off into sobs, and he pulled her into a hug.

“It’s ok,” she heard him murmur into her hair, his fingers running through her dark locks in a way that was soothing and calming, completely devoid of any sexual undertone. She closed her eyes and leaned into him, resting her head against his shoulder as he continued to whisper softly in her ear.

“If there are some things you aren’t comfortable doing, I’m ok with it. I’d never want you to do anything you’re uncomfortable with,” he murmured, and she tightened her grip on around his waist instinctively, determined to keep him close. Laura had never been put first in her entire life—everyone and everything she’d ever known had always revolved around Irene, with Laura serving simply as an afterthought. Now, standing here with tear-streaked cheeks, completely naked in the arms of a man who was willing to wait for her, Laura knew what it was to be loved.

Even if he hadn’t said it, even if he never would—because despite how open John seemed to be about his feelings, she knew his track record suggested he wasn’t experienced with committed romantic relationships, so proclamations of love weren’t all that likely— she knew John cared, more than anyone ever had. Perhaps what they had wouldn’t be seen as love in the eyes of an outsider, or even John’s; but to Laura, it was more than enough.

* * *

Sherlock wanted to take John in the palm of his hand, to stroke and tug and jerk until the army doctor let loose all the indecent noises that had haunted Sherlock’s dreams for the past month and a half. He wanted to shove himself into John, to thrust and buck and feel the smaller man tremble beneath his weight, the two of them moving back and forth to the music of Sherlock’s own breathless pants. He wanted to rub his fingers into the soft, muscular flesh of John’s thighs, to place hot open-mouthed kisses on his lower back, and to suck at the skin of his nipples until they were hard beneath his tongue.

Sherlock thought of all these things and more as he continued to stare in the general direction of the doorway where John now stood. John had arrived home early yet again. Sherlock still found himself expecting John not to return home until late morning, although the army doctor consistently got back from his dates with his girlfriend around half past two. He considered inquiring as to why the date had ended early, the same way he had that first time John hadn’t stayed out all night after he’d assured Sherlock he wouldn’t be home until morning. However, that inquiry had led to a rather heated argument between a jealous Sherlock and a defensive and confused John. He supposed he might as well keep quiet, seeing as he was sure he already knew more about the subject than John ever would.

But his mind was still preoccupied with the stirring images he’d taken to imaging whenever John wasn’t around—and sometimes unwittingly when he was. He watched John remove his jacket and toss it on the back of a nearby chair. Sherlock absently wondered for the twelfth time why on earth these strange feelings had suddenly emerged within him. He’d always been in control of everything, able to pick and choose which sensations he wanted to give into; but now his body seemed to have taken on a life of its own, rebelling against his mind as it fought for complete control. It seemed that after all these years of ruling solely by reason, his emotions and urges were tired of being pushed aside and ignored. He supposed deep down, he’d always felt this way about John—but now, he was finding it more difficult than ever to trick his mind and body out of the intense attraction.

Of course he knew the answer to his question, he just hated to admit it: it was the fault of John’s new lover. Every strange, unfamiliar, different, and uncomfortable event and feeling that had occurred since that fateful day at the Adler residence could be attributed to the existence of his flatmate’s current love interest.

“Sherlock, are you alright?” John asked, and the detective’s fingers twitched as John approached and squatted beside him. Sherlock desperately wanted to launch himself from the chair and onto John, to barrel him to the floor and have his bloody way with him right then and there. Instead, he offered a dismissive reply in the hopes of getting John to leave him to his impossible fantasies.

“I’m fine,” he muttered with a wave of his hand, and John gave him yet another look of confusion.

“You’ve been acting…strange lately,” John said hesitantly, and Sherlock peered at him from the corner of his eye.

“So have you,” he responded, and John shrugged as a ridiculous smile began to spread across his face.

Sherlock hated to admit it, but this woman had clearly changed John—and for the better. He smiled more, laughed more, tolerated Sherlock’s least hygienic experiments and rudest behavior, and seemed to have exponentially more energy. The presence of this woman had improved John all around—and it bothered Sherlock to no end.

Cheering up John, giving him something to smile about—that had been Sherlock’s job. He’d been the one to bring John back from the brink, to give him something worth living for. This woman was treading on his territory, taking what she had no right to come anywhere near. He’d been ok with the others leasing John physically—none of them had been permanent, and Sherlock hadn’t even realized the full extent of his attraction to John at the time. But this woman…she was different.

Not only did she wield some sort of physical power over John (despite the fact that they clearly hadn’t even had intercourse after being together for two months), she also owned him emotionally. And John’s emotions were Sherlock’s—no one else’s. He was supposed to be the one helping John, but this woman had barged in (well technically he and John had been the ones to barge in on her, but Sherlock had never been one for technicalities. Actually he was very big on technicalities, but he deemed them irrelevant in this case) and taken over with no regard for Sherlock at all. Moreover, there wasn’t even the slightest sign that her relationship with John would come to an end soon. It possessed none of the fundamental flaws all of John’s past relationships had shared, and Sherlock was beginning to fear he’d never see the back of this particular lover.

“Sherlock? Sherlock, are you sure you’re ok?” John’s voice sounded dull and far away, like it was coming from the end of a tube tunnel.

“Of course I am,” Sherlock muttered, pointedly turning away from John when he realized he’d been staring at the man for a full two minutes and thirteen seconds. When Sherlock showed no sign of offering an explanation for his behavior, John sighed and vacated the room, throwing a muffled “Goodnight” over his shoulder as he exited. Sherlock was left alone to retreat to his thoughts once more.

****  
  


 


	4. First Impressions

They’d been dating for a little over four months when it happened.

Laura was getting ready for bed, moving through her nightly routine as per usual while The Strokes played in the background. It was well past three in the morning, but she’d been free of work for the past week, and had taken to staying up with a good book or on the phone with John during her free time. Tonight, she’d watched re-runs of Britain’s Got Talent until she’d finally decided to head to bed. Laura bobbed her head back and forth and hummed along to the music as she brushed her teeth, shaking her hips and bouncing from one foot to the other. She executed an impressive spin as she belted the last note into her hairbrush, then regained her composure when the song finally ended. Padding back into her bedroom, she reached across her bed for her iPod to find another song, but froze with her hand still outstretched when she heard the distinctive patter of shoes on tile.

Straightening up immediately, she willed her heart to slow its pounding as she strained to hear any additional noises. Laura had always been slightly paranoid, so when she didn’t hear anything else she released her breath and figured it was simply her mind playing tricks on her again. But when she heard another noise, much clearer this time, Laura knew she wasn’t imagining these sounds. She hurried over to her closed bedroom door, then twisted the knob and peeked out into the hallway. Everything was dark, just as she’d left it, and it was impossible to tell if anything was out of place. Knowing it would be ridiculous to phone Greg and the others at The Yard this late over a few noises, she took a deep breath to steel her nerves before stepping out into the hallway.

Laura desperately wanted to turn on the lights for comfort just as much as guidance, but she didn’t want to risk alerting the possible intruder. As disgusting as it sounds, it’s probably just a rat, Laura told herself as she approached the kitchen. Sure, this flat was one of the most hygienic and well exterminated places she’d ever lived in, but there was a first time for everything, right?

Upon entering the kitchen, Laura strained to make out anything unusual by the dim light seeping in from the window above the sink. Not noticing anything out of the ordinary, Laura let out a sigh of relief as she turned back towards her room. But the sight of a man’s silhouette blocking the doorway sent her stumbling backwards, and her head reeled as she tried to think of what to do. Laura instinctively reached for the nearest form of cutlery, a rather large carving knife, but stopped dead in her tracks when the man’s familiar voice filled the room.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” the man said casually in his distinct Irish-tinged accent as he approached. The reptilian smile on his face grew ever wider as he emerged from the shadows.

“Jim?” she gasped. All thoughts of attack disappeared as she stared into his face. It had been years since she’d last caught a glimpse of him, but she’d spent hours listening to his voice through supposedly sound-proof walls—she was sure she’d recognize it anywhere.

“I’d hoped you hadn’t forgotten me,” he said, tucking his hands into the pockets of his immaculately tailored suit as he continued to come closer.

“Why are you here?” she asked, suddenly defensive as something John had said long ago clawed its way to the front of her brain. Jim waited patiently as realization slowly washed over an exhausted Laura, and her face twisted in anger when she finally understood.

“You’re Jim Moriarty—the one who’s been terrorizing John and Sherlock, who’s killed all those people,” she choked out, not wanting to believe the man who’d crept into her flat was actually a deranged murderer but knowing it was true.

“The one and only,” he replied with a boyish shrug, and she frowned at him in confusion.

“Why are you here?” she repeated, wishing she’d called Greg after all as she answered her own question aloud. “You’re here to kill me, aren’t you? Just to mess with John.” Jim raised an eyebrow.

“You must think you’re awfully important to him if you think I’d go through all that trouble just to hurt the little army doctor,” he said, and Laura mentally kicked herself. Despite his façade of all-knowing criminal mastermind, Jim clearly had no idea just how close she and John had grown. But then again, why would he? Sherlock was his target, not John; terrorizing the army doctor had just been the means to an end—an end that hadn’t arrived yet. But perhaps, now that he did know, Jim would use her feelings for John against her.

“So then what do you want?” Laura demanded, frustration and fear for John’s safety adding an edge to her words.  

“Tell me where Irene is,” Jim said simply, and she blinked. She knew Irene and Jim had been close, and Laura could clearly remember the well-dressed young man visiting Irene’s house almost once a week at one point. But Laura had never imagined they’d stayed in contact after she’d left.

“The world doesn’t revolve around you,” Jim said suddenly. The hairs on Laura’s arms rose as she realized his words could be interpreted as a response to her thoughts.

“Yes, I know; it revolves around Irene,” Laura spat out far more bitterly than she’d intended.

“Precisely,” Jim said, stepping so close to Laura that she could smell his expensive cologne. “So tell me where she is.”

“I have no idea,” Laura replied honestly, although she guessed her strong tone probably suggested otherwise. The smile began to fade from Jim’s face.

“Oh but you do,” he crooned, crowding Laura up against a set of cabinets. “I can smell it,” he hissed, baring his teeth like a wild animal as he suddenly slammed her backwards into the cabinets.

“I don’t know where she is!” Laura cried frantically, and Jim’s eyes narrowed to tiny slits.

“Do not lie to me,” he growled, and Laura glared at him; she was tired and afraid, and Jim’s cologne was beginning to give her a headache.

“Even if I did know,” she began, painfully aware of the fact that she was venturing towards dangerous territory, “I wouldn’t tell you.” Laura and Irene may not have had the best relationship, but there was no way she was going to help this murderous lunatic hunt down her sister for whatever reason. Jim’s nostrils flared out as he took a deep breath, stepping away from her and swiping his palm over his perfectly styled hair.

“A very long time ago,” he began, his voice strained and his fists clenching, “I promised him I’d never lay a hand on you,” Jim said, his eyes closed in obvious concentration. Laura’s heart had momentarily stalled at Jim’s mention of ‘him’, and she found it increasingly hard to concentrate on the man before her as another monster’s form danced before her eyes.

“But if you won’t tell me where she is voluntarily, I might have to break that promise,” she heard Jim mutter quietly, just before he lunged for her throat. Both of his hands wrapped around her windpipe and Laura instinctively reached up to claw at his fingers, even though she knew it was no use. Jim was taller and bulkier than her, and his hands were at least twice as strong as hers.

What was more, she found she didn’t really want to fight back in the first place. If Jim was back in her life, that meant that he was as well; hell, Jim had just mentioned him for goodness sakes. Laura had decided long ago that a life with him anywhere nearby wasn’t one she wanted to live. She’d considered suicide often enough in the past, but the one time she’d actually been ready to go through with it, Irene had stopped her.  Now, it seemed she would get to die without having to do any of the dirty work; if anything, Jim was doing her a favor.

Laura’s thoughts began to make less and less sense as her oxygen levels continued to deplete. The grim smile set on Jim’s face made it clear that he had no intention of releasing his grip. Sure, he wouldn’t get to find out where Irene was—but he was killing someone, and Laura was sure that gave him some sort of sick pleasure. Laura could hear her own gasping breaths begin to come fewer and farther in between, and as her vision finally darkened, Laura had one last conscious thought, a single name that she could have sworn formed on her lips even as she blacked out: John.

~*~*~*~*~*

When Laura awoke, her first thought was that someone must have replaced her wine with liquid fire and then punched her in the neck repeatedly; she could think of no other reason for why her throat ached and burned at such an intolerable level. As she slowly blinked open her eyes and found herself staring at one of the legs of the kitchen table, her memory gradually began to return to her. Pushing herself into a seated position on the tiles, she hacked and coughed as she tried to breathe through her crushed windpipe. She flailed wildly as she struggled to get oxygen into her lungs, her hand unexpectedly making contact with her mobile. She unlocked it with shaking fingers, dialing the first number that came to mind. John answered on the second ring.

“Hey, Laura, I’m a bit busy, but—“

“John,” she wheezed, clutching at the phone and ignoring an indignant cry she heard from his side of the line; Laura honestly didn’t care how upset Sarah or any other doctor got if she’d interrupted John’s shift at the surgery.

“What’s wrong?” he demanded, his work clearly forgotten as his voice lost its distracted tone in favor of a slightly panicked one.

“He was here. Jim—Jim Moriarty,” she gasped, and she heard John mutter a furious curse under his breath.

“Are you alright? Has he hurt you?” John demanded, and she could hear the sound of an elevator door dinging open in the background.

“I…I don’t know,” she said honestly. Her throat hurt like the Dickens, and judging by the early morning sunlight drifting in from the window, she’d been passed out for at least three hours. “He tried to strangle me last night,” she rasped, and heard John let out a startled yelp. “He’s gone now, and I’ve just woken up,” she continued, tears flooding her eyes as the full force of her experience hit her in the chest. “John…John he could have killed me,” she cried, wincing as a stab of pain shot through her neck.

“Oh, God, Laura…Laura, Laura, I’m so sorry,” she heard him mutter in that tone he used for the words Laura was never sure she was meant to hear.

“It’s not your fault,” she whispered, but her words were so soft and rough she could only hope he’d heard her.

“I’m on my way there now,” he said, his breath now coming in short huffs. She could imagine him jogging out of the clinic to hail a cab, ignoring hospital regulations to abandon his shift without finding a replacement first.

“Ok,” she said quietly, pulling her knees up to her chest and fingering the hem of her nightshirt as she let his soothing tone was over her.

“You’re safe now,” he continued, and she nodded, then winced as a pain shot through her neck. “But I don’t want you to be alone, so I’m sending Sherlock to watch over you,” he added in a rush. Laura opened her mouth to argue, but John continued before she could speak.

“I know you don’t know each other very well, but it’s going to take me at least forty minutes to get over there, and Sherlock’s just down the road,” he said reasonably, but his tone didn’t manage to dispel Laura’s displeasure. She knew Sherlock didn’t like her—it was bloody obvious, and John had even told her as much. Of all the people to be stuck with after her attack, why did it have to be him? Laura considered telling John that she was perfectly fine on her own, but she didn’t even attempt the lie. She was terrified and in pain, and needed someone to keep her from going crazy as much as she needed medical attention. Sherlock wouldn’t have been her first choice for a companion, but she supposed he would have to do until John arrived.

“Alright,” she croaked, and she heard John let out a relieved sigh on the other line after he gave her address to a cabbie. “I’ll see you soon,” he promised just before hanging up.

Laura remained huddled on the floor even after John ended the call, lost in the memories that continued to resurge from the depths of her mind where she’d hidden them away years ago.  Laura only rose from the tiles and wiped the tears from her cheeks when she was stirred by a knock on the front door.

* * *

Sherlock was seriously annoyed. No, that was far too much of an understatement; he was perturbed, vexed, cross, peeved, and bothered. He’d been right in the middle of one of his most fascinating experiments to date when John had called, frantic and out of breath. Sherlock had risen and pulled on his coat immediately, fearing the worst, but all the fight had drained from him when John had mentioned her name. Sherlock had thought John was in danger, that he was in trouble and needed his help; but no, he simply wanted Sherlock to spend his valuable time babysitting his girlfriend. Now Sherlock stood before the door to her apartment, glaring at the dark blue paint and tapping his foot impatiently. If she was so distressed and needed him to comfort her, she could at least have the courtesy to open the door when he knocked…

Sherlock’s eyes widened—inconspicuously, of course—in surprise when he caught sight of the woman suddenly standing before him.  She shared a few of the same features as her sister, Sherlock observed, although her face wasn’t quite as angular and she was noticeably shorter and curvier. She was more like one of the provocative librarians he’d come across while searching John’s internet history six months ago than a dominatrix, he supposed. The oversized purple nightshirt she wore hung off of one of her shoulders, and the shirt’s hem only brushed the midsection of her thighs. Her feet were clad in fuzzy red socks that rose up to cover her ankles, leaving the rest of her rather shapely legs on display. She tightly gripped the doorframe with one hand and held her other arm close to her body, standing slightly hunched and rigid; she was clearly both uncomfortable and afraid.

“Hello,” he said, surprising himself when he offered her a small smile. She blinked up at him with light blue eyes, her dark brows furrowing slightly. He watched as a polite smile struggled to break free across her face but emerged as a grimace instead.

“May I come in?” he asked, and she nodded, stepping away from the doorway and allowing him to sweep in beside her. Sherlock looked down at her, peering at her neck.

“Sit down,” he commanded, and she stared at him in confusion.

“Sorry, what?” she croaked with a frown, then burst into a fit of coughing. Sherlock winced inwardly as he led her over to the couch, helping her sit down before fetching her a glass of water from the kitchen. She was in worse shape than he’d fooled himself into anticipating based on John’s distressed voice over the phone; now it seemed he’d have to deal with the strange sensation of the sympathy he felt for her. Sherlock had spent months blindly hating this woman, but now that he was actually in her presence, he found that he could only muster up a strong apathy, if even that.

“Thanks,” she rasped, and he watched her carefully for any sign of choking as she slowly swallowed the liquid. Sherlock squatted down in front of her, getting an unexpected thrill from the way her eyes widened when he suddenly lessened the distance between them. He pushed back one of her black locks as he reached for her neck, but he pushed away the sudden urge to twist the dark, soft spiral around his fingers. She smelled faintly of flowers, and he supposed she must have used some sort of organic all-natural shampoo or lotion to make her skin appear so soft—there was no way it could have looked so inviting on its own. He moved his face closer to her neck, his eyes rapidly taking in the black and blue finger-shaped bruises that wrapped around her throat.

“Is it that bad?” she rasped with a slight smile, and he glanced up at her. “It’s just that you look like you’ve seen a ghost,” she told him, her expression sobering when he looked away quickly. “Have you seen marks like this before?” she asked, then added, “not just strangulation marks, but these in particular.” She watched him closely, her blue eyes seeming to take in more information than most civilians as she observed, analyzed, and tried to understand. Sherlock found his intense dislike for her begin to fade a little more.

“Moriarty,” Sherlock said simply, and she flinched at the name. “A man’s three children were strangled in their beds in order to draw out their father who’d been under police protection,” he said quietly, watching for her reaction. For some reason, he desperately didn’t want to give her another reason to be upset—not specifically because he feared for its effects on her injury, but because of something else, something he couldn’t quite place.

“What happened to the dad?” she whispered, her fingers now digging into the fabric of the couch.

“It worked. We found him the next day behind a dumpster, his throat slit.” Laura let out whimper, her hands flying up to cover her mouth and her eyes wider than saucers.

“Irene…are you saying that’s what’s going to happen to her?” she demanded softly, although Sherlock knew they were both well aware of the answer.

“Let me examine your neck,” he replied instead, and she allowed him to come closer once more but didn’t let the topic drop.

“Why is she involved in all of this?” Laura asked, and Sherlock felt the slight vibrations of her words beneath his fingertips. He momentarily considered pulling away, seeing as he’d already observed everything he’d needed to upon first glance, but he loved the velvety soft feeling of her skin against his.

“I have no idea,” he replied honestly, resting his fingers on the prints left behind by Moriarty’s strong hands. “These marks…they’re darker than normal, even though your skin doesn’t seem to be particularly prone to bruising—no marks from where you fell. And the children he strangled had a similarly intense pressure applied to their necks, only for a longer amount of time; it’s no mistake that Moriarty didn’t kill you. But the children’s father had been a friend of his who’d betrayed him, that’s why he strangled them so savagely. This is clearly personal; did you know Moriarty?”

When she didn’t respond immediately, Sherlock tilted his head upwards to look at her, only to see tears pooling in her eyes. He pulled away immediately, her tears making him incredibly uncomfortable and the hitch in her breathing not helping in the slightest. But despite the way her crying made his skin prickle, Sherlock found he could not look away.

“Why are you asking if you already know?” she said guardedly, and he raised a dark eyebrow at her. No one had ever spoken to him in that particular way, with a mix of confusion, awe, annoyance, and defiance. Sherlock was now officially intrigued.

“I don’t know everything,” he admitted, and she blinked in astonishment. It was clear she’d heard of Sherlock’s’ reputation for being less than humble; he hoped that this show of faith, of admitting that he wasn’t perfect either, would encourage her to open up.

She was now watching him as well, as if gauging whether or not he could be trusted. He allowed himself an inward smile of satisfaction when, after a few moments of hesitation, she began to talk.

* * *

Laura pulled her legs up underneath her on the couch, tugging down on her nightshirt so that it stretched over her knees down to her calves. She hugged her legs close to her body, refraining from resting her chin on her knees when the throbbing that had subsided with Sherlock’s touch returned full-force. She watched him now, squatting on the floor just before her with his huge, alien blue eyes dancing across her face and neck, taking in everything at once.

His long, pale fingers were steepled, and his full pink lips were pressed against them as he watched her expectantly. She considered delaying answering his question even more to instead simply stare at his unusual appearance until John arrived, but as her heart rate increased it became clear to Laura that that wasn’t an option. After over a decade of keeping what had happened to her a secret, she found that her body couldn’t turn away the opportunity to confide in someone. Even the pain she felt in her throat was no match to her body’s determination to voice her secret.

“The first time I saw Jim, I was sixteen,” she began, and she watched as Sherlock’s expression changed from observant to actively listening; he really was a fascinating creature, unlike any human being she’d ever encountered. Laura forced herself to pull her mind back to the conversation at hand.

“I came home from school on a sunny Thursday afternoon, and as I walked past the drawing room I saw him there, sitting on the couch. He was wearing a nice dress shirt and sports coat and held himself as if he was someone to be reckoned with—or at least he thought he would be someday. He was talking with Irene, and as she hated it whenever I interrupted her at work, I just kept on walking and didn’t think twice about it. She was trying to get her business started and was having trouble finding a reliable person in the same business to sponsor and support her; I simply assumed Jim was the man she’d found to fill that position—and he was. He stopped by often to converse with Irene, but never seemed to take notice of me, and I hardly realized he was there most of the time.  I only knew him as Jim, and didn’t make the connection between him and the Moriarty John had told me about until last night. ”

Laura bit down hard on her lip when she finished, straining to keep her emotions in check as the events of that first day she’d seen Jim were dredged up from the dark rooms of her mind she kept under lock and key at all times. Occasionally little bits of memory would escape just to terrorize her, but opening the doors to put a voice to her past was almost more than she could bear.

“And then what?” Laura started at the question she’d known Sherlock would ask—those words she’d dreaded from the moment she’d decided to explain her connection to Moriarty.

“I only caught glances of him after that,” she said in her most measured tones, not meeting Sherlock’s eyes.

“Yes I know,” Sherlock said impatiently with a roll of his eyes, and Laura shot him a glare. It was startling how different this man was from John despite the fact that they’d lived together for almost a year now; clearly John’s patience and general understanding of the fact that there were just some things Laura didn’t want to talk about hadn’t translated over to Sherlock. “I want to know what happened next; who was the other man you met that day?” he asked, and she gaped at him. John had told her countless tales of how Sherlock’s impossible knowledge of places and people had revealed the evidence needed to break a case; but to have him use his gifts against her was as impressive as it was unpleasant.

“I’ll tell you on one condition,” she told him, and he arched an eyebrow but nodded anyway.

“I won’t tell John,” Sherlock said, and Laura felt as if her unspoken request needed further explanation—although his opinion shouldn’t have mattered to her, she didn’t want Sherlock to think she made a habit of keeping things from John.

“Look, it isn’t that I don’t want him to know eventually. It’s just that…well, I’m not ready to tell him yet,” she said quietly. It was because Sherlock’s’ opinion of her didn’t matter that she felt she could tell him, she assured herself. She didn’t care if he thought of her as broken and worthless—or at least she wouldn’t have an hour ago. Now, with him sitting here before her in a way that was almost civil, she was beginning to wonder how exactly she felt about the unconventional detective.

“I understand,” Sherlock said with a dismissive wave of his hand, leaning forward eagerly like a child waiting for an exciting new story. She had no idea why he was so interested in what happened that day—it had nothing to do with Irene, whom he’d been so keen on locating that first day she’d found him in her sister’s house. But Laura desperately needed to get it off of her chest, the secret that had been plaguing her for years straining to emerge.

“Ok, here goes nothing,” she muttered under her breath, then noticed that he was still squatting before her on the ground.

“Do you want to sit?” she asked, gesturing to the adjacent chair. Sherlock looked surprised, as if he hadn’t noticed his peculiar position, and rose gracefully from the ground before lowering his long body down onto the seat. He nodded in her direction once he was seated, and she took one last deep breath before beginning her tale.

“I left Irene and Jim alone in the drawing room and headed to the kitchen for a snack, leaving my backpack by the front door. I went straight for the refrigerator and had already grabbed some yogurt before I noticed the other man in the room,” Laura said, her voice giving out suddenly. She’d managed so far without too much difficulty, but the sudden realization of exactly what she was doing—relaying the events of one of the most traumatic days of her life to a man she hardly knew—had caused the pain in her throat to flare up.

She began to cough, and reached for the glass of water at the same moment Sherlock did. Their fingers brushed, hot and small against cold and long, and she couldn’t help but let out a tiny gasp of surprise at his sudden touch. They both paused, the glass suspended between them, and their eyes met over the water for just a moment before Sherlock released the glass and Laura brought it to her lips. She averted her eyes as she took greedy gulps.

“Not too fast,” Sherlock warned gently— an adjective she’d never thought could be associated with the seemingly emotionless detective—and she paused mid-drink. She stared at him over the rim of her glass, and saw that despite his kind tone, his eyes were wide and slightly wild. Laura turned away from him abruptly and continued on with her story.

“The other man in the room smiled at me, his straight white teeth flashing and his brown eyes scanning me with a hunger so primal I should’ve run right then. But I’m not afraid to admit that I liked the way he looked at me from his perch on the counter a few feet away. It sent a hot rush through my entire body, and I never wanted anything to pull his openly carnal gaze away from me. That was the look men always gave Irene, the men who always ignored me in favor of watching her. But Irene wasn’t there—it was just him and me in the kitchen, and I was the one he was staring at.

“Anyway, he stood and came closer, his eyes on me the entire time as he introduced himself as Sebastian Moran, a friend of Jim’s. I was shy and nervous, but Sebastian was talkative enough for the both of us and didn’t seem to mind my awkwardness. He asked me about my hobbies, my friends, my school work; he seemed keen to know about all the things no one had ever taken any interest in before. I have to admit that after a while I didn’t hear a word he said as we conversed; once I was no longer required think of clever answers to his questions, I just marveled at his devilishly handsome face and form as he talked. He was tall, tanned, and muscular, with a strong jaw and I quick smile; I’d never come across anyone who so perfectly embodied the term ‘classically handsome’.

“And I’m sure he didn’t pay much attention to my words either, as his eyes constantly drifted to the skin exposed by my short plaid skirt and my uniform shirt with the first two buttons loose. After about half an hour of talking his fingers lightly brushed my bare arm and he leaned in a bit closer, asking if he could see my room. I just sort of stared at him for a moment, and he added that he knew I might think him too forward, but he thought I was beautiful and desperately wanted to kiss me—just not in public. He was a bit shy too, he said, and that made me smile. As manipulative as his words and actions seem to me now, they were music to my ears back then.

“I’d gone my whole life with no one paying me any attention; my parents, who I was convinced hadn’t loved me at all, had just been killed in a helicopter accident; Irene, who’d consequently gained responsibility over me and had once been my closest friend, spent all of her time trying to distance herself from me as much as possible; and here was this gorgeous and charming man, at least five years older than me, telling me he wanted to kiss me. I’d never had such good luck in my life and thought a similar opportunity would surely never arise again. So I let him. I let him do much more than that, leading him up to my bedroom and locking the door behind us as he continued to murmur sweet lies in my ear.

“As things got more heated and my uniform made its way to the floor, I quickly realized no matter how shy Sebastian wanted me to think he was, he was certainly far more straightforward about what he wanted than I’d anticipated.  When I asked him to slow down, Sebastian ignored me and plowed on like a wild bull intent on reaching his destination. He later told me that he had a thing for Catholic school girls, that he hadn’t been able to resist me,  that he’d been so caught up in the moment that he hadn’t heard me pleading for him to stop.  I tried to get away but he grabbed onto me, his fingers closing down on my wrists so hard I was sure I could hear the bones shattering. He pinned me down on the bed and panted that he needed me, that it wouldn’t hurt at all, and that it would make him love me. At the mention of love, the thing I’d craved insatiably my entire life, my willpower began to weaken. I…”

Laura paused, talking a deep breath and resting her throat for a moment as she willed herself to go on. Her story was almost over, she thought. Or at least this first part was; she had no intention of relaying to Sherlock each and every event that had occurred between her and Sebastian over the course of those two years.

“He began to…well he had sex with me. I just lay there, squeezing my eyes shut and crying out as I tried to make it through the most intense pain I’d ever experienced, just counting down the seconds until it was all over. There was nothing beautiful, loving, or romantic about it. Sebastian clearly enjoyed himself, his face split into a wolfish grin as he collapsed onto my bed beside me, his muscles heaving under a thin sheen of sweat. But I couldn’t move; I wanted to take a scalding hot shower, to claw off my skin and burn away all the dirt and grime I felt was caked to my body with acid. Instead I let him kiss me on the neck and run his hands through my hair as he whispered about how beautiful I was. He told me that he loved me, and despite the shame and disgust I felt all the way down to my core, I believed him.”

“That afternoon was the beginning of the worst two years of my life,” Laura said quietly, clutching onto the nearly empty water glass as she stared down at the floor. She glanced up at Sherlock, who was watching her intently, a strange look on his face. “I’ve told you what happened that first day. I don’t see how it’s related to you finding my sister, and I don’t want to talk about the rest of it,” she told him flatly, her emotions raging so violently within her she’d resorted to shutting them off completely. Sherlock’s expression gave no sign that he’d registered her last few words. His brow was slightly furrowed and his eyes were narrowed, as if he was trying to navigate his way through a particularly confusing puzzle in his own head.

At that moment an urgent knock sounded at the door, and Laura gave a start—but Sherlock didn’t even blink. Clambering up from the couch, Laura hurried across the flat and opened the door, flinging her arms around John’s shoulders the moment the pesky wooden panel was out of her way. She buried her face in his neck, a sudden torrent of tears flowing from her eyes and sobs rocking her body as she clung desperately to him. “My god, what did he do to you?” she heard John murmur in a mix of fury, fear, and worry.

Laura wasn’t entirely sure who John was talking about. Her mind instantly flew to Sherlock, and she couldn’t help but think his presence had actually softened the blow of facing her memories. Then she realized John had to have been referring to Jim; John had no idea about Laura’s intervention with Sherlock. But, despite this realization, she couldn’t help but think John somehow knew she’d confided in his flatmate, and wanted to be let in on her secret past as well.

‘What did he do to you?’ had morphed into ‘what did you say to him, and why can’t I know?’ in her mind, and she shoved away a surge of guilt.  Laura snuggled closer to John as he wrapped his warm, strong arms around her, and his fingers stroked through her hair in that soothing way she loved. Eventually I’ll tell him, Laura thought as John murmured gentle and calming words in her ear. But as she listened to the sounds of Sherlock making tea in her kitchen, the cabinets slamming shut and utensils clanking against flatware, she wasn’t sure if she could ever let John know the truth.

 

  
  


 


	5. Holiday Cheer

Sherlock had always detested parties, and this year’s Christmas celebration was no different. Having to feign interest as countless guests prattled on about their terribly dull and mundane lives, having to enlist John or Mrs. Hudson to pick out and wrap a gift that he could later scribble his name onto, having to spend hours cooped up in the same boring room with the same boring people… there were few things Sherlock despised more than parties. However, this particular party proved to be far more engaging than the detective had anticipated.

For one, John’s girlfriend had arrived early in order to help Mrs. Hudson and John decorate. Sherlock had pretended to work diligently on his laptop, while in reality he’d spent the entire time observing the way she interacted with John. They were all smiles and shameless flirtations, and they would have seemed completely at ease and in love to an untrained eye. But Sherlock could tell from the way John’s grip was extra tight on the ladder he’d held steady for Laura that the man was deeply worried about her. And Sherlock knew for sure that John’s girlfriend was keeping a rather large secret from John; the guilt was clear—to Sherlock at least—in the way she’d repeatedly cast wary glances in Sherlock’s direction.

Sherlock would pointedly ignore her gaze every time her eyes drifted towards him, although he couldn’t help but wonder what thoughts flew through her mind when she looked at him. Sherlock was less than proud of the images that flashed through his own head whenever he snuck a peak at her. She wore a deep burgundy sweater dress with sleeves that stopped just below the elbows, and Sherlock had found it quite disappointing that she’d worn brown tights beneath what would have been a delightfully revealing dress otherwise.

John had seemed to appreciate the way the fabric accentuated her curves just as much as Sherlock did, as John’s eyes wandered constantly and his hands slid along the material whenever Mrs. Hudson’s back was turned. She let John touch her without hesitation, Sherlock observed, and he wondered just what he’d have to do to get her to give him that kind of leeway. He wanted to touch that neck again, and to explore the other skin he knew had to be just as soft. It was all there, just out of reach; his only barriers were her conscience and her clothes—get past those and he could have her. Getting past a few pesky pieces of fabric would be easy; it was the prospect of winning her heart so that she wouldn’t feel so wrong about allowing him to explore her body that required a bit more thinking.

But Sherlock wasn’t only envious of the army doctor’s privileges—he was jealous of John’s girlfriend as well. She could stare at John with love and longing written all over her face, place chaste kisses on his cheek in the presence of his landlady, and kiss him eagerly when Mrs. Hudson went downstairs to check on the biscuits. Sherlock had felt a jealousy like nothing he’d ever known bubble up in the pit of his stomach when she’d pulled John by the collar of his jumper to a hallway where she thought Sherlock couldn’t see them the moment Mrs. Hudson vacated the flat.

Sherlock had longed to run his hands up and down John’s chest the way she did, to feel the army doctor’s tongue slide against his lips before exploring the mouth he clearly knew by heart. Sherlock had wanted to tug at his hair just the way John liked, to feel his hands on Sherlock’s arse as John lifted him off the ground and pushed him up against the wall with a grunt. He had wanted to be the one to leap away from John when Mrs. Hudson re-entered the flat, and to have to pry John’s hands away from his body as they went back to work. Sherlock had wanted to be in her shoes.

Even now, as he sat alone in his bedroom and cautiously regarded the camera phone in his hands, he found himself wishing he wasn’t Sherlock Holmes, the consulting detective who’d just been handed the end of one of his most stimulating cases yet.

Sherlock found it significantly harder than expected to explain the contents of his unwanted Christmas gift to the guests at the party. He’d instantly known everything he was going to say after ending his phone call with Mycroft, but voicing the words themselves, and speaking them aloud to a group no less, was far more difficult than he’d been prepared for. Sherlock avoided the collective gaze of the guests as he spoke, and focused on counting the long, painful seconds after his short speech during which no one moved.

Lestrade was the first to react to Sherlock’s news, falling back on his police training as he tried to restore a sense of order to the shocked and no longer merry partiers. He made a few calls of his own, then returned to the deathly silent living room with a heavy sigh. He refused to look at John’s girlfriend, but his words were clearly directed towards her.

“If you don’t mind, we’d like it if…uhm, well it would be great if you could come down to the morgue…you know, to make sure it’s…well…” Lestrade trailed off uncomfortably, looking down at his shoes and making it clear that he desperately wished he hadn’t been placed in this position. Sherlock watched with a frown as she shook her head adamantly.

“No. I’m sorry, but… I can’t. I can’t see her, not like that,” she told him, then bit down on her lip. Sherlock knew she must’ve realized that refusing would just make things harder for everyone at te Yard. But he could tell by the way she wrapped her arms around her middle and shifted closer to John that there was no way she could look at her sister like that, lifeless and naked on a metal slab in a bright, barren room.

“Have Sherlock do it,” she said, looking up at him hopefully from across the room. Sherlock started, not having expected to hear his name on her lips. It sent a strange thrill through his body, which he promptly ignored; he was working, and this was no time for distractions. Besides, The Woman was far more interesting than these strange sensations, he told himself. Of course that wasn’t exactly true, he knew, but it helped him focus. Or at least it should have.

“You were so enthralled with Irene that I’m sure you haven’t deleted even the most obscure things about her from your memory. You’re probably more qualified to identify her than I am,” she said, tears beginning to well in her eyes as she pleaded with him. She really can’t do this, Sherlock realized, and he found himself nodding before he’d even weighed the pros and cons of accepting her request.

John and his girlfriend both looked up at Greg, who shrugged. “There’s nothing in regulations against it, so I’m fine with it. Really whatever works best for everyone is what’s best for me,” he said agreeably, and Sherlock watched her give him a watery smile of thanks.

“Off to the morgue it is, then,” Molly said a little too cheerfully, looking away when Mrs. Hudson cast an odd look in her direction. Molly returned Mrs. Hudson’s polite hug goodbye a few moments later, then pulled John’s girlfriend into a bear-hug. Sherlock watched as she rested her head on Molly’s bare shoulder, their arms wrapped tight around each other’s small frames. He knew they were relatively close, as John’s girlfriend was in touch with nearly all of Molly’s favorite authors and had offered to get her advanced copies of various novels the moment they’d met. However, seeing this shameless display of affection, of friendship and support, made Sherlock’s stomach twist uncomfortably. He realized with a silent huff of frustration that he wanted that too: a genuine, friendly hug, devoid of any sexual tension or ulterior motives.

He turned away when John kissed her on the cheek, but couldn’t block out the sound of John’s voice promising in a gentle whisper that he would call her later on that night.

As he led Molly, John, and Lestrade, out of the flat and onto the street, Sherlock wondered just how many other things he was in want of that he just hadn’t picked up on yet—and if he’d ever actually manage to obtain any of them.

* * *

Laura was still awake at 3:02 AM when her mobile started to vibrate. Her voice was heavy with exhaustion as she answered John’s call, but she knew it would be quite a while before she was able to sleep soundly again. At least I’m not sobbing hysterically, Laura thought blandly as she held the phone to her ear. She’d suspected for a while now, but Sherlock’s words the previous week about the father with the strangled children had eradicated all doubt. Laura was pretty sure even Abigail had known something was up, the redhead having moved back to Ireland with an attitude more like a widow than a scorned lover when Irene hadn’t returned after three weeks.

But prior knowledge did little to soften the blow of the words, “Laura…Laura, it was her at the morgue; Irene’s dead,” transmitted over a telephone line. Even though she’d known for weeks, even though it had been undeniable the moment Sherlock had found the mobile phone, Laura still felt the same shock she’d felt fifteen years ago when her had parents died. She’d managed to hold herself together relatively well at the party, but here, in the privacy of her own bedroom, Laura allowed herself to fully process John’s words.

Everything was a blur and suddenly no fact was concrete; in a world where there was no longer an Irene, where her one constant no longer existed, how could anything else be definite? If her sister, a woman whom she hadn’t talked to in years but had always known was still there, could be taken from this world in an instant, what could she possibly rely on?

But then, Irene hadn’t really been in the best of circumstances, had she? Jim Moriarty, a man whom Laura had always considered to be a friend of her sister’s, had broken into Laura’s house and nearly killed her—plus, she suspected he was responsible for Irene’s death as well. Her sister had clearly been in some sort of trouble. These thoughts managed to break their way through the torrent of emotion that washed over Laura once again, her mind still racing despite the tears and dizziness.

“Laura? Laura, are you still there?” Suddenly remembering that she was still on the phone with John, Laura struggled to think of something to say. She was still here, but Irene wasn’t—so what was the point? The one last person who’d still been there, even when Laura had desperately wished she wasn’t, was gone.

“I’m still here. But I don’t want to be,” she said, her voice so pained and congested it sounded completely foreign to even her own ears.  She heard John let out a sigh, and she imagined him covering his face with his hand, squeezing the bridge of his nose the way he did whenever he was under stress.

“Look, about the burial,” John began, and Laura felt her entire body tense. She was only thirty-one and had already buried both parents; Laura didn’t think she could handle planning another funeral, especially not Irene’s. “I don’t want you to think about anything related to the funeral,” John told her, and Laura felt a tiny smile break through her tears.

“I’ll take care of everything; you just…well I’m not sure what you should do. But I’ll come over tomorrow, ok? We’ll watch all the Doctor Who Christmas specials and make cinnamon buns,” he told her, and her smile widened even as her tears began to flow faster. John wanted to do two of Laura’s favorite things to keep her mind off of her sister’s death; of course, the things that were Laura’s absolute favorite had been, before the death of their parents, Irene’s favorite things to do as well. But how could she possibly have expected John to know that if she refused to ever mention her sister at all?

“That sounds great,” Laura sniffed, then added, “has anyone told Abigail?”

“She’s next on my list,” John told her. “Like I said, don’t worry about anything—I’ve got it all worked out.”

“And what about her possessions? All the furniture, the clothes, the house…” Laura squeezed her eyes shut at the idea of that big house void of Irene’s presence, the complete strangeness of the thought causing her real, physical pain. She knew Irene wasn’t coming back, but she couldn’t bear the idea of someone else roaming the corridors, eating breakfast at the bar-style counter, sleeping in Irene’s bedroom…

“All taken care of; Irene split everything equally between you and Abigail in her will,” John said, his last few words hurried. “I’ve got to go, Sherlock will be back home in a minute. But I’ll see you tomorrow, alright?”

“Yep,” Laura sighed, defeat clear in her voice.

“Ok, good. And Laura…I love you, ok?”

Laura smiled, wiping away a tear as a warm rush flowed through her entire body. It was strange how incredible it felt to have those three little words spoken to her by a person she knew, without a doubt, really meant them. Words that had once been a form of manipulation, that had once been a trap, now took on a new meaning.

“I love you too,” she told him with a foolish grin as her nose began to run, then hung up and collapsed back onto the pillows.

It took Laura a few moments to realize just why John had chosen that particular instance to voice his feelings for her. She’d known for some time that he loved her; she couldn’t pinpoint a specific moment when it’d become clear to her, and she wasn’t sure if it would even be possible to figure out just when they’d known. She and John had just clicked, from the very beginning, and had only grown closer as time went on; perhaps, as Irene would say—would have said—, it was just inevitable.

Irene…that’s why John had told her he loved her. He’d been able to hear the pain in her voice, the way her will to live had suddenly drained to a terrifying low. As a doctor, Laura was sure John knew she’d attempted suicide more than once in the past. Even to an untrained eye the marks on her forearms were visible if one really looked. Plus, John had even run his fingers over the deeper, cruder scars in places conveniently kept hidden from the public by her clothes. She hadn’t told him what had driven her to bouts of self-mutilation or what had led her to try and take her own life, but it was clear John thought such a devastating event could trigger those self-destructive and even suicidal thoughts once more.

Laura couldn’t help but smile as it became more and more evident that John honestly did care about her—and wanted to make sure she knew as much, even if just to give her a reason to live. Suicide hadn’t exactly been on her mind to her during their conversation, but she knew she had a long night ahead of her before John arrived, and that despair could drive her to anything here alone in her flat.

Maybe she didn’t want to end it all now, but a few more hours thinking about how she’d never again see a single living family member may have brought the blade to her wrists a second time—without Irene bursting in to save her as she had before. But I’m here for you, John had said in those three little words. Even when everyone else left, drove her away, or was taken from her, John would always be there for her. He wasn’t going anywhere, and for that reason alone, Laura could be sure that neither was she.

*~*~*~*~*

“Do you want me to stay?” John asked as he returned to the couch balancing two glasses of milk and yet another cinnamon bun. Laura waited until he was seated next to her before snuggling up next to him, covering his legs with the blanket as they settled back into their standard tv-viewing position.

“It would be great if you did,” she told him, grabbing his wrist and pulling it towards her to take a large bite out of the sticky sweet pastry. She then took his free hand in hers once more as the end credits scrolled across the screen and the DVD reverted back to its main menu.

“So is that a yes?” he asked with an arched brow through his last mouth-full of pastry. Laura looked up at him seriously.

“If you want it to be,” she said with a shrug, and his gaze intensified at her words.

“I don’t want to leave you here alone,” he said, his fingers warm around hers as he stroked his thumb along the back of her hand.

“Then don’t,” she said with a smile, and his lips curved upwards in response.

“Great.  So next DVD then?” he asked as he sucked the sugar from his fingers, gesturing with his chin to the large stack on the coffee table.  

“You read my mind,” she told him, leaning forward to sift through the combination of both of their Doctor Who DVD collections that took up almost all of the available table space.

“Sometimes I wish I had two hearts,” John mused a few hours later as he climbed into her bed, and Laura smiled despite the circumstances. Her sister’s body may just have been found, but her boyfriend—who loved her, by the way—was wearing one of her oversized t-shirts and voicing his desire to become a Time Lord. She giggled and rolled over to look up at him.

“You’d make a great Doctor, doctor,” she said, unable to manage a straight face as she spoke the words. John grinned as he settled in next to her. She turned to face him, instinctively reaching out to touch his face. He continued to smile at her as she stroked his cheek, his skin irresistibly soft beneath her fingers.

“I wish Irene was still here,” Laura blurted suddenly, and John’s eyes softened as he reached out and took her other hand in his beneath the sheets. “I’d hardly even seen her for the last thirteen years; when I left when I was eighteen, I completely broke my ties to that house and to her, leaving everything behind and starting over. It was difficult, but having Irene there with me, still in my life, would only have made things harder. She’d stopped being the supportive and loving older sister she’d once been soon after our parents died, and having her around me only seemed to bring me more pain and heartbreak.” John listened intently as she spoke, his hand warm, strong, and supportive around hers. “But even after everything I’ve been through, after everything she didn’t do, I still wish she was still at least here on earth, living the lifestyle she’d sacrificed my wellbeing to maintain.”

“We all want more time,” John agreed, and although she knew he meant well, Laura felt as if he was oversimplifying her situation—but then again, he didn’t even know anything about the events she was alluding to. Laura allowed the urge to talk to John about Irene, to finally get everything out in the open, begin to take hold of her. She’d revealed the tip of the iceberg to Sherlock, but the frozen mass beneath the surface still yearned to be exposed. Looking at the man in her favorite XXL uni t-shirt, his eyes soft and inviting, she knew this was the time to finally expose herself.

Laura began by telling him everything she’d told Sherlock, taking in the way John’s face transitioned from wary to horrified as her story progressed. Once she’d finished relaying the events of that first day, she began to explain all that happened afterwards.

“Sebastian came by the house often after that,” she began, and John’s expression darkened.

“I really don’t like where this is going,” he muttered as he scooted closer to her and she allowed him to drape his arm over her waist.

“It only gets worse,” she assured him quietly, and he ran his fingers through her hair.

“I spotted Jim rarely at first, although his visits increased as time went on, but Sebastian was a regular visitor. He would always be there waiting for me when I returned home from school, and would arrive at all hours of the night at my window on weekends. At first he was romantic, bringing flowers and continuing the shy, cautious routine that I eagerly ate up. I was genuinely convinced that Sebastian was kind and gentle, and that the way he’d treated me in my room on that first day had just been a result of his inexperience. I’d overwhelmed him, I told myself; I forced myself to ignore the sense that he was dark and dangerous, and told myself that there was nothing more to it than that.”

“It’s times like these when a TARDIS would be very helpful,” John muttered, and Laura offered him a weak smile.  “If I could go back in time and stop him, I would,” he continued, and when Laura looked up into his face she saw that he was being completely serious.

“I don’t care what kind of damage it would do to the space-time continuum or whatever. I would do anything to keep him from doing what he did, from hurting you. I would stop him before he could ever lay a hand on you,” John said, his voice tight with a deep, honest anger.

Laura tightened her grip on his hand, leaning forward and placing a gentle kiss on his cheek. He looked significantly calmer afterwards, and Laura felt she could continue on with her story without having to worry about John attacking a pillow in a fit of rage.

“He was a pretty good boyfriend at first, but after about a month or two, things changed. The romantic gestures dwindled and then stopped altogether, and he no longer spoke to me with the same sweet, almost reverent tone. He expected me to allow him to do whatever he wanted whenever he wanted, and he even began to treat me like his property, completely ignoring my requests, wants, and most of all fears.”

John was biting down on his bottom lip, his expression a strange mix between anger, worry, and self-loathing. “I wish there was some way I could have stopped this, kept him from doing these things to you,” John exclaimed, his voice so vehement Laura considered ending her story for the night.

“John, it isn’t your fault,” she told him gently, and he sighed in agitation.

“I know, but…” he trailed off and shook his head in frustration. When he didn’t continue, Laura picked up where she’d left off.

“Sebastian had wanted to have sex often from the very beginning of our flawed relationship, but had settled for violating me only once a week. But once he’d given up on pretending to be a decent man, he fucked me whenever he bloody well pleased, and with such ferociousness that I was often left with various scratches and bruises. I hated what he did to me but I was convinced he loved me, that he couldn’t help what he did, and that I should just let him do it because that’s what you did when you loved someone. At least that’s what he’d told me—everything I knew about love I learned from him.”

John let out a grunt of displeasure, his face twisted and upset; but he didn’t speak, and so Laura continued.

“Irene was well aware of what was going on. At first I thought she was just incredibly naïve, not noticing the bruises on my wrists from being pinned down, or the awkward way I walked on Sunday mornings and winced whenever I sat down. But one afternoon I caught her watching me as I cleaned a particularly nasty cut I’d gotten when Sebastian pushed me up against the edge of a windowsill, and the look on her face made it clear that she knew.”

“I expected her to confront Sebastian in the way that I was too terrified to, to tell him to stop hurting me, to stop killing me—because I was sure he would be the death of me. But life continued on as usual, and eventually I realized Irene wasn’t going to do anything about the way Sebastian was treating me. I had no way out. And that’s when I started cutting myself. At first I used it as just another form of pain, my own way of trying to build up resistance to it, I guess? I don’t really know what I was thinking. But things quickly spiraled out of control, and pretty soon I found that just causing myself pain wasn’t enough, no matter how deep I cut or where I dug in the blade.”

John’s eyes flickered down to her wrists where various pink marks decorated the skin. She saw his eyes soften and she knew he was thinking of the numerous, far worse scars on her stomach and thighs.

“My teachers had begun to notice the marks and bruises, and my friends had as well—they all suspected what was really going on, as I’d bragged loudly about my amazing older boyfriend at school during the first few weeks of being with Sebastian. But no one did anything about it—no one cared. It’s when I realized that I honestly didn’t have anything to live for that I tried to take my own life. I wasn’t sure how to go about it, but I remembered seeing on TV something about how slashing down the forearm was the best way to do it because the wound couldn’t be stitched. So one night, after a particularly bad hour and a half with Sebastian, I crept into the bathroom and picked up the razor I always used. And the scariest part about that night? I didn’t even hesitate. Things had gotten so bad that I was convinced death was my best option—that to end it all was the best course of action.”

John’s grip on her hand was so tight she had to pry his fingers apart in order to return circulation to her own. “Laura…” his dark blue eyes were filled with worry, despite the fact that the story obviously couldn’t end with Laura’s death. John pulled her even closer to him.

“But just as I began to cut, Irene burst in and I froze. She simply stared for what felt like an eternity, and for a moment I honestly thought she was just going to turn around and walk back out of the bathroom, leaving me to die on the floor next to the toilet. But instead she reached forward and took the blade from my hands, then fastidiously cleaned my relatively shallow wound. She led me to my room, helped me into bed, and even tucked me in the way our mom used when we were little. But instead of murmuring “goodnight, pumpkin,” like Mum always did, Irene whispered “I’m so sorry, Laura,” before hurrying from the room like the very devil himself was at her heels.

“When I awoke the next morning, the only thing able to convince me it hadn’t been a dream was the painful sting in my forearm. Hearing voices in Irene’s room next door, I hurried over to the spot beside the wall where I always sat when I listened in on her conversations with Jim. I heard her whispering in pleading tones, mentioning my suicide attempt the night before and asking for what clearly wasn’t the first time if Sebastian couldn’t find himself another ‘plaything’. When Jim replied that allowing Sebastian complete and unregulated control over me was a non-negotiable part of their contract,Irene gave in without further argument. I packed my things right then and there.

“My sister had put a business deal above not only my dignity, innocence, and safety, but my very life as well; with one overheard conversation she’d ensured that I would never see her the same way again. While she’d done all she could to disassociate herself with me over the last two years, I’d thought she was just going through a phase, or that it was her strange way of coping with the loss of our parents. But now I knew it was guilt that had motivated her—a guilt that still wasn’t stronger than her desire for wealth and power. My sister had betrayed me, and I knew that I could no longer rely on her at all.”

“That bitch,” John muttered, and Laura didn’t disagree; she’d been thinking the same thing for the past thirteen years, and even Irene’s death couldn’t change her opinion.

“Although I was still a few months away from my eighteenth birthday, I was confident I could survive on my own. I’d saved up a few thousand pounds, planning to leave it to a charity when I’d passed, and I used a small fraction of my funds to board a bus to Wales. In search of a new life worth living, I never looked back.

“I lived my life, taking a part time job and eventually putting myself through uni. I was finally able to live the way I wanted to, and got a job that eventually brought me back to London. I’d attempted a few more relationships that each ended terribly in their own way, leading me to pretty much give up on the idea of a ‘decent man’ ever really existing. I suppose Irene had still kept tabs on me, despite the fact that I’d thought I’d managed to completely disappear from her life, as she called within a month of me moving to London. I ignored her, not ready to face my past, but eventually she managed to badger me so much I gave in. Irene always got her way, and my pain was no match for her determination.

“But every time we set up a time to meet, one of her clients would schedule an appointment unexpectedly or she’d get called for a last-minute meeting; even after all these years, she still put her business before me. But Abigail was always eager to entertain me, and we became fast friends as I arrived regularly at Irene’s house almost twice a month. Abigail jokingly suggested that I just stay at Irene’s house, in my old bedroom, for a week or so; at least then I’d be guaranteed to see her. Determined to finally confront my sister about her treatment of me as I’d been too upset and afraid to do in my youth, I did exactly as Abigail suggested. I sent Irene a text telling her to expect me at one o’clock, and she called me back saying that her day was entirely free. She promised that it would just be the two of us—and Abigail of course. So imagine my surprise when I arrived at my sister’s home ready to confront my past, only to find you trotting down the stairs.”

Laura added that last bit in an attempt to wipe the grimace from John’s face, and she let out a sigh of relief when a small smile graced his features. She’d only wanted to relieve a burden from her chest, but had clearly ended up distressing him in the process.

Laura snuggled closer until she could rest her head against John’s chest. Tilting her face upwards, she placed a lingering kiss on his lips.

“Please don’t be upset, John,” she whispered, and his features softened.

“Sorry. It’s just a lot to process,” he told her, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her even closer against him.

“I probably should have told you earlier,” she began, but John shook his head adamantly.

“You told me at the perfect time—when you were ready. And I’m glad you did. I…well, I worry about you, Laura. I’ve lain awake at night wondering about what happened to you, if it was still happening, if I was somehow making it worse…” Laura’s eyes widened at his words, and her heart leapt into her throat.

“John, how could you possibly think you were making things worse? You’re what’s helped me get through all of this, helped me accept what happened and finally begin to move on,” she cried, her voice rising in pitch. She’d unearthed a wealth of feelings by retelling her story, and her sister’s recent death, added onto John’s words, proximity, facial expression—just John in general—were turning her into an emotional wreck.

“I’d sworn off men before I met you,” she added, although she wasn’t exactly sure why—perhaps to prove to him how much he’d changed her? Her words caused that familiar less-than-innocent smile to tug at John’s lips.

“Is that so?” he asked, as his fingers began to tickle up and down the sides of her bare thighs beneath the sheets.

“It is,” she told him matter-of-factly, and he arched an eyebrow.

“Would you care to explain why I changed your mind?” he asked, his lips now on her neck, and she snorted; Sherlock wasn’t the only one with an ego that needed petting.

“Actually I’d rather not,” she said, and she heard him chuckle into her collarbone. “You’ll just have to guess,” she added, her breath hitching when he slid his palm up beneath her shirt and along her stomach.

“Oh, I love a challenge,” he purred as his hand made its way up to her breasts, and Laura let out a quiet sigh. John’s fingers moved expertly over her chest for what felt like hours, alternating between tracing patterns along her skin and circling his thumb around her nipple until the skin felt raw. His lips were soft on her neck, and his warm breaths puffed against her skin as he rubbed his nose into the spot just behind her ear.  Laura finally pushed John’s hand away to pull her shirt over her head, then climbed on top of him. She straddled his hips to rest her hands on John’s chest, and she laughed at his grunt of surprise. She looked down at him, his eyes dark with desire, and she soaked in the power she felt rush through her as John watched her with heavily-lidded eyes.

She slid her hands upwards, sliding the fabric of his shirt up to expose his torso. She then bent down to trail kisses down his bare chest. Laura slipped her hands between his legs as she did so, rutting her palm against John’s cock through the material of his boxers.  Her actions caused a symphony of noises to erupt from within John, his breath now coming in strained gasps as he begged her to stroke him off properly. After a few more minutes of torturing him with her touch, Laura removed her hands from his groin and reached up to remove his shirt altogether. She then swooped down to attack his mouth with hers, her lips and teeth pulling mercilessly at his lips. John let out a frustrated grunt, and she felt his hands slide beneath her underwear to grip onto her ass. She smiled as she realized he was trying to push her hips down against his, as he was clearly desperate for any sort of friction. Laura arched her back in response, and John let out another slightly annoyed yet clearly still aroused noise as she pressed her breasts into his chest and her butt harder into his palms.

Laura broke the kiss and finally gave in, sitting down to drag her fingernails slowly down his chest. She gently rocked her hips back and forth over his, and John’s erect cock strained at the material of his boxes as it rubbed insistently against her pelvis. John let out one of his distinct and familiar begging noises— the one he reserved for the moment when he would very much appreciate it if Laura would allow him to fuck her senseless.

Laura pulled away from him and rolled onto her back on the bed beside him, running her hands through her tangled hair. She had become accustomed to their nocturnal routine, and waited for John to jerk himself off as he normally did right about now. She would watch him intently as his hands stroked and pulled at his own skin, the noises that escaped his lips and the various ways his face contorted never failing to send currents of pleasure and desire rushing through Laura. But instead of plunging his hands below the waistband of his boxers, John turned to her and panted, “I wouldn’t hurt you, you know.” 


	6. First Dance

Laura stared at John as his words sank in. He wanted her, that much was clear. And, no matter how afraid she’d been before, Laura had wanted John from the very beginning. She’d always trusted him, always known he wouldn’t do anything without her best interest in mind. But there was something about him knowing about her past and thus her reasons from running away from sex that made his words so much more meaningful. Now that he understood, that he knew the truth, she knew John thought he could figure out how to make sex enjoyable for the both of them without evoking Laura’s bad memories.

“We could take it slow, maybe not even go all the way,” he breathed kindly, his voice strained but devoid of the animalistic desperation she’d come to associate with Sebastian. His eyes weren’t lustful but loving, and Laura wondered how many people were actually lucky enough to witness the difference.

“I mean, I’m here getting off on how bloody hot you make me, and you’re just lying there watching; it’s hardly fair. I want to give you what you’re giving me,” he said sincerely. Laura hesitated for only a fraction of a second before reaching up to slide her hands into his hair. She gently pulled John’s head downward until his lips were just above hers.

“Make love to me,” she whispered dramatically, then giggled slightly at her absurd delivery and choice of words. John’s lips quirked upwards in a genuine smile, and he whispered, “God I love you,” before placing a gentle, slow kiss on her lips.

Laura was doing this—this was actually happening. She thought about pinching herself just to make sure it wasn’t a dream, but she quickly dismissed the idea; if she was dreaming, she wanted to continue to pretend that it was real for as long as possible. John’s tongue was soft and caressing against her lips, and his kisses only slightly increased in fervor as his mouth made its way down her body. Laura let a tiny moan escape her mouth when John began to suck at the skin just beneath the waistband of her mauve cotton underwear.

His fingers slid the material from her hips slowly, leaving her completely naked before him on the bed. He sat back on his heels for a moment, his eyes traveling all the way from her face to her toes and then back again. She watched him examine her, and Laura took in the fading white lines her fingernails had left on the flushed skin of his chest. She then glanced up to his mouth, where her greedy biting had left tiny bite marks on his bottom lip. She’d marked him as hers, she realized, and now he was about to do the same to her.

John shifted so that his head was positioned between her legs, and Laura took a deep breath as he reached up to spread them apart. He began to place hot, open-mouth kisses on her inner thighs, and she fleetingly wondered how he could possibly be this so good at taking her apart like this, kiss by kiss. He stroked the backs of her legs as he worked, his eyes gently closed as his mouth moved ever closer to uncharted territory, and she watched him in eager anticipation even as her breath came in short huffs. The sudden presence of his fingers on the skin that hadn’t been touched in years pulled a startled gasp from her lips, and his light, feathery caresses sent her eyes fluttering shut. She rolled her hips into his hand and her breath came in heavy gasps as John began to apply more pressure, his fingers rubbing hypnotically into the highly sensitized skin of her clit.

Laura’s breath hitched when his fingers moved lower and began to rub into her more insistently, moving against her wet skin as she hungrily pushed back against him. She let out a startled cry when he slid a finger into her, and her breath came in short, shallow gasps as he pushed in a second digit. She’d just gotten used to the warm presence in her vagina when John’s fingers began to move, and his thumb started to rub circles into her clit again. Her mind reeled as she tried to process this new feeling, this indescribable pleasure that was far more enjoyable than she ever could have imagined. She could feel her lips spread into a smile as John continued to touch her, and Laura babbled what she knew as incoherent praise as she blindly ran her fingers through his hair. This sensation was completely foreign to her as she desperately pushed up into him; there was pleasure in this, there was love in this—there didn’t have to be pain, at least not the kind she’d felt in the past with Sebastian. It had never before occurred to Laura, but she supposed that fundamentally, a man’s touch on her vagina was nothing to be afraid of. It was the man himself one had to fear.

Laura’s mind was wiped clean of all thoughts of Sebastian when John pressed his fingers farther into her. Her body responded immediately, her hips frantically pushing upward as if her pelvic muscles had taken a life of their own. John dug his fingers even deeper and she let out a loud moan, her fingers clenching in his sandy locks as she panted his name under her breath.

“More,” she managed to choke out. Laura desperately needed more pressure, more heat, and she was eager to see what else he could do to her, what other pleasures he could give her. When John didn’t respond, Laura looked down to see a wicked grin spread across his face.

“Not yet,” he breathed, just before he ducked his head down between her legs. Laura let out a desperate cry as fingers disappeared without warning, only to be replaced by lips and tongue. She could now feel a wet heat stroking and fondling her clit, breath puffing out against her hair, and a soft warmth pressed against her skin; that was his tongue, those were his lips—on her, kissing her, licking her, melting her down to the core with every motion.

John’s hair tickled her lower abdomen and she let out a shameless whimper when she felt a vibrating heat against her vagina as he moaned deep in his throat. Her body had completely given itself over to these sensations and it was all she could do not to shove her hips up into his face—the last thing she wanted to do was deter John from his work. His nose was pressed against her clit now, nuzzling against it in the most usually erotic way, as his tongue pushed its way into her vagina. Laura gave up on trying to make sense of anything ever again as John Watson fucked her with his mouth, his tongue sliding in and out of her and moving around inside of her and dear god how had she survived without this all her life? How was she ever supposed to get anything done, to do anything else ever again, when she could be getting fucked by the mouth of John Watson? Nothing else in life would ever stand up to this—how could it?

But of course there were an infinite number of things John could do to her—why stop with oral? What if every act she’d ever performed with Sebastian could be tweaked so that it would be enjoyable for both parties involved? There were dozens upon dozens of things John could do to Laura—that Laura could do to John! That they could do to each other…

“John…John, I want you…I want you John, please," she begged in a loud voice, and she glanced down just as he lifted his head from between her legs. “I want you,” she repeated desperately, and he stared at her for a long moment, his pupils so huge that his irises were nothing more than dark and thin circles. John crawled over her with a slow smile, taking as long as he could just to torture her. He kneeled so that his hands were on either side of her head on the mattress, and she stared up at him with wide eyes and bated breath. His hair was a wild blonde halo around his head and his mouth was smeared with her, and his tongue slowly emerged to slide across his lips. She watched, fascinated, and almost missed it when John leaned closer and began to speak.

“What exactly is it that you want from me?” he purred, his eyes flickering across her face, and her mind reeled with all the delicious things she could do to this man. Where on earth was she to start?

“Sit back and I’ll show you.”

Laura sat up and crawled towards John until she kneeled just before him, her breasts mere centimeters away from his chest. She held his gaze as she slid his boxers slowly from his hips, and she let her fingers tickle his thighs, exploring the tender flesh that covered thick muscle. She then ghosted over his balls, their heat radiating in waves, before she trailed her fingers slowly up his shaft.  John let out a soft whimper in response, and she smiled as his eyes fluttered shut.

Laura wrapped her hand around his shaft, the flesh hot and already slick with the fluid that leaked from its tip, and she began to slowly pull in long strokes, slightly twisting her wrist each time she reached the head. John let out a heavy sigh as she touched him, leaning forward to bury his face in her shoulder and senselessly mouthing at her collar bone. Laura circled her thumb over the head and dragged it along his opening, and John sucked in a gasping breath and pushed his face harder against her, his hands coming around to press into her ass. His hips were giving tiny jerks now, insistently pushing his cock in her hand against her hip as he tried to pull her closer. She began stroking again, a bit faster now, and his body pitched forward over her as he tried to push her down onto the mattress, desperate for more pressure, more friction, more anything. Laura stopped him before he could fully climb over her.

"Do you have anything?" she panted, and she pushed back on his shoulder so he was forced to meet her eyes. John stared at her in a dazed confusion as if he’d been rudely awakened from a wonderful dream.  Understanding slowly crept across his face, and eventually he nodded.

He scrambled off of the bed, then crouched down on the hardwood floor to fumble with his pants. He quickly produced a condom from his wallet, and ripped it open with his teeth as he clambered back onto the bed.

"What, do you always carry one around with you?" she asked teasingly as she took the round piece of rubber from him with a smile.

"A soldier's always prepared," he said breathlessly, before meaningfully eying the condom in her hands.

"I'm pretty sure that's boy scouts," she told him with a playful smile before she placed the condom beside her on the mattress. John let out an indignant grunt of surprise, but he quickly forgot his annoyance when Laura bent down to place a light kiss on the head of his cock. His entire body sagged with pleasure at her touch, as if all his energy had surged down to the richly veined organ. John let out a low moan as he leaned back, still resting on his knees but supporting his upper body with his hands flat on the mattress behind him.

“Oh god yes,” he gasped quietly as Laura slowly dragged her tongue up his shaft in a long, broad stroke. She then enveloped the tip in her mouth, sliding her tongue along the underside of the head, and John let out a strangled whimper. He slid a hand into her hair as she sucked him farther into her mouth, and he let out a shuddering groan as she teased at the vein at the base of his head with her tongue. Laura glanced up at his face and felt excitement bubble in her stomach as she realized just how many sounds she could get John to make using her mouth alone. It felt so good, hearing him whisper her name under her breath, feeling his fingers caress her scalp, tasting his heat in her mouth, and knowing she was the one doing this to him.

“Jesus,” John breathed, staring down at her with wide eyes as she continued to suck him in until the tightly curled blonde hairs at his groin nearly tickled her nose. He was panting now, and his elbow trembled as his fingers twisted into the sheets. She gave a particularly strong suck as she began to massage his balls in her hand, and John threw his head back with a desperate cry in response. She glanced up to see his bottom lip tucked beneath his teeth and his eyes shut tight as he began to eagerly thrust his hips forward as she bobbed back and forth beneath him. Laura watched his face with hungry eyes, and she noted the return of a distinct wetness between her own thighs.

“Laura…oh god Laura,” he cried, and she tried in vain to keep him still as he endeavored to push his cock farther down her throat.  She pulled back to slide him out of her mouth when it became clear that it was pointless to attempt to keep him still.

"If I don’t fuck you right now, I’m going to explode," he growled in a broken voice, and she watched in amusement as he took a deep breath in a vain attempt to calm himself down. She smiled, then reached for the condom and slowly slid it over his swollen flesh. Laura pushed her hands up his torso until she could wrap her arms around his shoulders, then pulled him down onto the mattress on top of her.

“Are you ready?” John panted, his eyes still sincere beneath the heavy curtain of desire, and Laura didn’t hesitate before nodding.

Laura sucked in a startled gasp, her fingers digging into his shoulders, when John began to push himself into her. John hesitated and she assumed he’d probably asked if she was alright, but Laura could only comprehend the fact that the delicious pressure had suddenly ceased.

“Don’t you dare stop,” she panted, and she let out a throaty moan when the heavy heat and that painfully wonderful strain on her muscles returned.

Laura had been fucked scores of times, more than she cared to count, and she’d never thought about penetration as being anything a woman could really enjoy. But never before had she experienced anything like this. This wasn’t just about her letting John shove his cock into a warm wet hole as he punished her for an offense she couldn’t even remember—no, this was about him wanting to give her something, about him wanting to show her that sex really wasn’t something she needed to be afraid of.

Once he’d fully entered her, Laura more or less lost her grip on reality. She could feel his breath hot on her neck and she knew his fingers were entwined with hers, but all she could even begin to comprehend was the way his rhythmic rocking sent waves of pleasure coursing through her. She panted that he didn’t have to be so gentle, that she wanted him to go harder, faster, deeper—she wanted him to fuck her like he meant it. Or at least that’s what Laura had intended to say; her words came out as slurred mutters, confused gasps, and half-coherent syllables rudely interrupted by desperate moans.  But John seemed to understand her nonetheless, and his breath came in quick huffs against her ear as his muscles shifted and he pushed his hips down into her without restraint.

His grip on her hands tightened. She screwed her eyes shut as John pounded into her; again, and again, and again, and again. The pleasure grew with each forceful thrust, and Laura couldn’t help but think that maybe she’d actually died hours ago and this was her final reward for all her life’s suffering.

Laura’s head bumped against the headboard as John’s movements became more and more desperate. He was muttering something, his voice low and thick and strained and breathless, and Laura wanted to know what he was saying but she couldn’t concentrate, and she could feel something building up within her, something strange and terrifying and wonderful that was just out of reach. She cried out as John gave a particularly deep thrust, and her toes curled and her spine arched upwards and every muscle in her body seemed to gather and bundle and squeeze together. Laura let out a moan so high pitched it bordered on a scream as the feeling within her continued to constrict, clenching together and then holding tight as her entire body shivered and trembled. After a few glorious seconds John's entire body shuddered as he let out a throaty noise that was a mix between a sigh and a groan, and Laura felt a sudden rush of hot liquid surge against the thin plastic barrier that separated their flesh. The tension within her finally released a fraction of a second later, and sent her tumbling over the edge in a flood of sedated euphoria.

Laura opened her eyes and slowly blinked up at John a few minutes later, a drowsy smile spreading across her face when she caught sight of John’s sleepy, satisfied expression. He bent down and placed a quiet kiss on her forehead, his warm breath ruffling her hair.

“I love you,” he whispered.

“And I love you,” Laura responded quietly. He rolled off of her to lie just beside her, and she pressed her body close against his. John wrapped one arm around her shoulder and the other around her waist, and she snuggled into him, resting her head against his chest and listening to the soothing rhythm of his heartbeat against her cheek.

Laura let her eyes fall shut again as she relished in the warmth radiating off of John. She loved this feeling of being so close to him, as close as humanly possible. Her fingers made their way to his shoulder and she absently traced along the familiar ridges and taught stretches of flesh that made up his scar. John placed another kiss on the crown of her head as he ghosted his fingers up and down her forearm, his fingertips dancing over thin faded white lines. Laura sighed contentedly.

“I wish we could just stay like this forever,” she heard him whisper after a long while, and Laura laced her fingers through his.

“Me too,” she murmured. Laura listened to the calming sound of his heartbeat as she slowly drifted into that perfectly comfortable trancelike state just between consciousness and sleep.

* * *

 Sherlock let out a heavy sigh as he pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes. He’d been seated at the flat’s kitchen table for hours, wasted tea bags surrounding the space around him. John’s favorite mug, half-filled with cold tea, sat beside an empty box that had once contained the nicotine patches that now decorated his arms. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten or slept, and the alarm he felt at not being able to recall his own actions was far more troubling than the damage he knew he was doing to his body. A lack of food had always helped him focus in the past, but now it seemed this torture had betrayed him. Rather than allowing him to focus on things that mattered, such as the unfinished experiment on the far side of the table, all he could think about was her.

Not the Woman—no, that would’ve been logical, reasonable, understandable. The Woman had supposedly been his obsession for months, known by all persons involved by the title she’d created for herself: “The woman who beat Sherlock Homes”. But no, she wasn’t the one Sherlock couldn’t tear his mind away from. No matter how much tea he drank, no matter how many times he replaced used patches, he couldn’t erase the image of the naked body of the Woman’s sister entwined with John’s.

Sherlock let out a frustrated grunt and slammed a fist on the table, grateful for this physical pain in his hand as he tried to mask the totally foreign ache he felt somewhere in the vicinity of his chest and abdomen. Thoughts of her were inescapably accompanied by thoughts of John, thoughts of them together—thoughts of the one topic he couldn’t bear to consider.

Following the Woman’s death, Sherlock hadn’t expected John to arrive home in the wee hours of the morning as he’d routinely done on days when he had an early end to his shift at the clinic; Sherlock had known the Woman’s sister would need comforting, a responsibility that undoubtedly fell on John’s shoulders. However, he hadn’t anticipated this new pattern of John arriving home late in the morning, sometimes just before noon, to continue for any lengthy period of time.

He could picture the two of them now, John having been up since just before dawn due to his habitual routine, while the dark haired woman resting on his chest would have just woken up  at half-past nine. John’s short sandy hair would already be slightly mussed, but she’d reach up to ruffle it with a smile anyway, making some joke about him having a bedhead that would make him smile in that way that crinkled the skin around his eyes. He’d make a witty remark regarding her own tangled hair, and surely after only a few minutes of playful chatter their conversation would dissolve into more physically strenuous morning activities.

Sherlock tried his best to pull his mind away from this painful simulation of events, but he found he had nothing else to focus on. His mother would have of course attributed this turn in events to karma; it was merely punishment for his unkind words to John and less than proper thoughts concerning both John and his girlfriend.

Nonetheless, if it was indeed “the powers that be” that were punishing him, Sherlock couldn’t help but feel the price he was being forced to pay was on the extreme side.  He gladly would have kept his cruel remarks to himself if he’d thought it would in some way prevent these odd emotions from twisting his gut. John was now having sex with his girlfriend on a regular basis, and the Woman, the topic that likely would’ve kept his mind occupied enough to dull the pain he now felt, was undoubtedly deceased.

John no longer needed him, that much was clear; Sherlock was no longer the one who’d be attributed with the accomplishment of healing the army doctor, as all admiration for John’s continued improvement went to her now.

Of course Sherlock had to admit that she was healing John in ways Sherlock couldn’t—ways he wouldn’t. That was an important distinction, Sherlock reminded himself; he was in all ways capable—strike that, in all ways completely, almost terrifyingly eager for any chance—of being involved with John in the same ways his girlfriend was. It was John who was the problem, John who’d look at her ceaselessly with unabashed desire but never seemed to notice Sherlock’s longing stares. The girlfriend did of course make things more difficult, but even without her John wouldn’t have ever been his; Sherlock valued their friendship far too much to make that sort of gamble.

Sherlock sighed once more, running his hands down the length of his face. Blaming John was not the answer, he knew. Sexual preference wasn’t something one could control, he now knew for sure.  (Sherlock had maintained a margin of doubt in this area only due to a lack of sufficient evidence and little to no understanding in the field, but his own recent experiences had absolved all doubt from his mind). He would most definitely have returned to a world where sex was trivial and unimportant if he could have. The knowledge and understanding he’d gained in no way made up for the painful—not annoying, or frustrating as they always had been in the past— emotions he felt.

He glanced over at the recently penned sheet music to his right, the notes scribbled down in a way that startlingly contrasted his usual meticulously crafted music. He’d drafted the song in a fit of anguish, resolving to channel his feelings into song rather than drown them away with a drug made of stronger stuff.  His violin lay abandoned farther down the table, the bow left carelessly beside a rack of test tubes. He momentarily considered reaching for it, but ultimately decided it would require far too much effort. Besides, there was no one around to listen anyway.


	7. Family Reunion

Laura had just finished typing a long-winded reply to an email from Abigail when Sherlock came bursting in through the door to her flat. She scrambled up from the couch with a scream, her laptop crashing to the floor as he swept towards her.

“How did you get in—the door was locked,” she demanded breathlessly, her heart still racing as she wondered if perhaps she should install an alarm system.

“Did you know about this?” Sherlock hissed, his voice strained as he shoved his mobile into her face. Laura glared up at him before glancing at the screen. She read the words written there four times before she was actually able to comprehend their meaning. Once she did, Laura stumbled backwards and fell back onto the couch.

“I’m not dead—let’s have dinner,” Laura whispered to herself, her head reeling as she recalled John’s many annoyed rants about how Irene had texted Sherlock during her initial absence. Laura honestly hadn’t cared if her sister teased the detective but refrained from contacting her—Irene had made it clear long ago that she hadn’t really wanted anything to do with Laura. Even thirteen years later Irene had still kept her sister in the dark while using her as an object, having made Laura into a diversion in order to escape the police for her own personal gain.

But while hearing of Irene’s flirtatious one-sided conversations with Sherlock was one thing, having to hear second-hand from him that her sister was actually alive was almost more than Laura could handle.

Laura looked up at Sherlock, who was still staring intently at her from a few feet away. His chest was heaving and his eyes looked slightly crazed as he closely observed her reaction. Laura’s eyes then latched onto the phone he held, where an unfamiliar number was present at the top of the screen.

“Let me talk to her,” she demanded, leaping up from the couch, but Sherlock pulled his hand away with a frown.

“I can’t let you do that,” he said defensively, stepping lithely to the side when she lunged for his hand.

“Give it to me,” Laura screamed, all the pain, anger, and frustration she’d felt towards her sister in the past few months bubbling to the surface and directed at Sherlock. He warily held out his hand to her, and Laura snatched the mobile from him with greedy fingers. She clumsily dialed the number, and she didn’t bother to turn away from Sherlock as she waited for Irene to answer.

“How could you do this?” Laura cried the moment the dial tone ceased, her voice faltering as her throat tightened. “You finally make me think I can trust you again, that maybe you’ll actually start to behave like a decent sister again, and then you pull a stunt like this?”

There was silence on the other end of the line. Laura waited for her sister to respond, her breath puffing against the touch screen on Sherlock’s phone.

“I’m sorry,” came Irene’s voice, empty and distant.

“No you aren’t,” Laura spat, her face twisted in fury. “Do you know how I know, Irene? Do you? Because you never stopped. No matter how bad it got, no matter what he did to me, you never—“

“I couldn’t!” Irene interrupted, desperation and agony clear in her voice. Laura paused for a moment, caught off guard by her sister’s sudden display of emotion. She’s just trying to play you, Laura reminded herself. She’s done it plenty of times before to countless people, even you—don’t let it get to you.

“Yes you could have! Sure it might have been bad for business, you might have lost a few customers here and there, but—“

“You really don’t understand do you?” Irene huffed, her voice incredulous. “After all these years, you still don’t get it. Laura, who do you think paid for that house, for the food, for the school you went to? I had to find a way to earn enough cash to provide for us—I certainly wasn’t making all that money just by selling myself!”

“No, you weren’t. So you decided to sell me as well,” Laura said coldly, then ended the call. She pulled the phone away from her ear and stared at it for a full minute before chucking it in Sherlock’s general direction. She then buried her face in her hands and began to sob, making the most unpleasant gasping, retching noises as tears flooded from her eyes. After a few minutes Laura realized that Sherlock was still in her living room, standing off to the side and looking terribly uncomfortable. Clearly this wasn’t how he’d expected things to go.

“I didn’t think John would want me to let you talk to her,” he said once her crying finally decreased in volume.

“Why is she doing this?” Laura sniffed as she slumped back onto the couch, hating the way her voice sounded so small and weak.

“That’s what I hope to find out,” Sherlock said with a small smile. Laura shot him a skeptical look.

“She didn’t want you to know she was back, did she?” Laura asked, and Sherlock let out a sigh as he came to sit on a nearby sofa-chair.

“I followed John—“

“Hang on, what has John got to do with any of this?” Laura demanded, sitting up straight as her fists clenched instinctively. After everything she’d been through, she there was no way she was going to let Irene take the one positive in her life away from her.

“She wanted him to do something for her—to get her camera phone. Apparently she sent it to me for ‘safekeeping’ and wanted him to return it to her. She said that if I knew she was back, I’d come after her. That keeping me in the dark was for my own safety. ”

“And will you? Go after her, I mean?” Laura asked, but Sherlock didn’t answer. Laura sighed, burying her face in her hands once more. How could a man so brilliant possibly be so tremendously stupid?

“You know she’s using you, don’t you?” Laura asked in a tired voice, and he frowned at her. “My God, she’s got you under her spell too! You’re all the same, aren’t you? Or we, I should say; I’ve fallen for it too. When Irene says she knows what you like, she doesn’t mean just sexually. She knows how to pull you in, what to say to get you to do her bidding. It’s her job, Sherlock, and you’re playing right into her hands.”

Sherlock gave her a disdainful look. “I think I’d know if I was being manipulated,” he said, his voice dripping arrogance. Laura glared at him.

“Clearly you aren’t as clever as you like to think.”

Sherlock blinked at her for a moment, something unfamiliar and slightly terrifying flickering in his gaze. Then he stood, pulling his coat closer around him as he prepared to leave. “Yes, well thank you for your concern, but I must be leaving now. You’ve been most unhelpful,” he said, looking straight ahead as he passed.

“Wait,” Laura called suddenly, hurrying up from the couch to reach him before he vacated the flat. “Did she say anything else?” Laura asked hesitantly, and Sherlock frowned at her in confusion. “About me. Did she say why she kept all of this from me, why she didn’t even want me to know she wasn’t actually dead?”

Laura could have imagined it, but she was sure she saw Sherlock’s features soften ever so slightly at her words. His expression was almost sympathetic as he slowly shook his head.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, so softly she almost missed it. Laura nodded silently, tears brimming in her eyes once again as she opened the door for Sherlock and he stepped out into the hall.

*~*~*~*~*

 

A little over an hour after Sherlock left her flat Laura found herself in Mrs. Hudson’s kitchen, seated at the small table beside John as the wail of sirens finally begin to fade and Sherlock raided the landlady’s refrigerator. John had called her a few minutes after she’d managed to get her computer to reboot, his voice flecked with worry as he described the American agents’ invasion of 221B as well as their terrorizing of Mrs. Hudson. He’d been convinced Laura would be next on their list of people to ‘interrogate’ if they were at least half-decent investigators, and had insisted that she come over right away.

“Would you like some tea, dear?” Mrs. Hudson asked, and John nodded while Laura hurriedly rose to her feet.

“I can make it,” Laura offered kindly, but Mrs. Hudson frowned slightly and Sherlock shot her a disdainful look.

“Oh, no, don’t worry about me,” the older woman said with a smile, taking Laura by the arm and leading her into the sitting room. She heard John rise from his seat as well, and he followed her and Mrs. Hudson out of the room as Sherlock lingered in the kitchen. “It’s no trouble at all,” Mrs. Hudson added when Laura opened her mouth to protest. The older woman placed her hands on her shoulders and pushed her down onto the sofa, then hurried back into the kitchen before Laura could get in a word.

“She’ll be ok,” John assured her with a smile as he came and sat down beside her, wrapping an arm around her shoulders as he did so. “She just needs something to keep her mind occupied.”

“So do I,” Laura said, looking up at him meaningfully. “What did she say to you?” she asked after a pause, and John shifted slightly, turning to look at her directly.

“Just what Sherlock told you earlier,” he said, and Laura nodded, looking down at her hands folded in her lap. John paused for a moment before continuing. “I tried to get her to tell you she was alive, but she just said it was ‘irrelevant’ and texted him instead. I’ve never wanted to punch someone in the face so badly; Sherlock needed to know she was alive, but so did you,” he said earnestly, but Laura shook her head and pursed her lips as she tried to hold back more childish tears.

“Irene didn’t need to tell me she was alive, and she only told Sherlock because it’s going to aid her in her plan to gain money or power or whatever it is she wants this time,” Laura said, her voice a perfect balance of bitterness and sorrow. “The fact that I know is only going to cause her more trouble,” she added, and John frowned at her.

“Hang on, what plan? And why is you knowing your sister’s not dead a problem?” he asked, and Laura glanced over her shoulder into the kitchen. Sherlock was seated at the table drinking tea and chatting away about some new development in quantum physics while Mrs. Hudson stirred a pot on the stove and nodded whenever appropriate. Although she figured they were occupied enough not to listen to her conversation with John, Laura lowered her voice nonetheless.

“John, as I’m sure you’ve already realized, Irene can’t be trusted. Her actions, her words, everything she even thinks about, are all focused on her own personal gain. She doesn’t care what happens to you, me, Sherlock, or anyone else as long as it helps her get what she wants. Whatever it is she’s got going on with Sherlock, it’s definitely good for her but most likely not quite as beneficial to him.” John nodded as she spoke, his expression now worried as he glanced over at Sherlock.

“He’s completely infatuated with her,” John said, and Laura let out a sigh.

“Then it’s already started,” she huffed in annoyance. There was little they could do to help him now even if he was willing to listen to reason, and Sherlock’s stubborn and arrogant nature would only make convincing him of Irene’s ulterior motives all the more difficult.

“He hasn’t eaten or slept in weeks,” John continued as he watched Sherlock accept yet another biscuit and steaming mug of tea from a beaming Mrs. Hudson. “On the night Irene died—sorry, faked her death—we were all convinced he would relapse. Mrs. Hudson and I both raided the entire house in search of his secret stash, but couldn’t find anything.” John turned to her, his eyes tired but his jaw set in determination. “She needs to be stopped. She’s already done so much to hurt you, and it looks like Sherlock’s her next unfortunate victim,” he said dryly, but Irene shook her head.

“If there’s one thing you have to understand about Irene, it’s that she doesn’t have victims, John. She doesn’t set out with the goal to hurt people, even if she does associate with criminals like Jim Moriarty. No, to Irene, we’re just collateral damage,” she said, and John’s expression darkened.

“Which only makes the situation all the more dangerous for the two of you,” he said, and Laura squeezed his hand reassuringly.

“I’ve already been through the worst of it,” she told him, and he winced. “But John, Jim broke into my flat looking for Irene before she ‘died’, demanding that I tell him where she was. Jim goes hunting for my sister, one of his oldest friends, acting as if he wants her dead, right? Then she fakes her own death only to later reveal herself and call on Sherlock for help? Of all the things I’d classify Irene as being, damsel in distress has never been one of them. There’s clearly more going on here than Sherlock is willing to admit,” she said, and John’s expression morphed into one of horror.

“Are you saying Irene is working with Moriarty? That they’re both playing Sherlock in some elaborate scheme?” he asked, his voice rising in pitch as he spoke. Laura hurriedly gestured for him to lower his voice.

“I’m not saying I know that for sure. It’s a bit more than I’d expect from Irene, despite her past. But it makes sense. I’m just saying we should be on our guard,” she told him, and John nodded with a sigh.

“But wait, she said she didn’t even want Sherlock to know she was alive,” John said, his voice hopeful as he scrambled for ways to disprove Laura’s theory.

“Well of course that’s what she said,” Laura said incredulously. “But I promise you, if Irene really hadn’t wanted Sherlock to know she was back, there’s no way he would’ve ever found out.”

“The food’s ready, dears,” Mrs. Hudson said cheerily as she bustled back into the room, and Laura let out a startled yelp. All this talk of Irene and Moriarty working together, of Sherlock in danger of being manipulated in much the same way she’d been long ago, had set her on edge. Laura took a deep breath as she tried to calm herself down again, and John gently rubbed his thumb back and forth along the back of her hand.  

“I’ve got some tomato soup from a recipe Nora from my book club recommended, and she says it’s just amazing. Come and eat whenever you’re ready,” Mrs. Hudson said with a smile, then hurried back into the kitchen.

“Which basically translates to ‘you lot eat first because I’m afraid it’ll be the most disgusting thing I’ve ever tasted’,” Laura muttered, and John laughed, placing an affectionate kiss on her cheek.

“That’s more like it; as long as Sarcastic Laura is here I know there’s still hope,” he joked, and she smiled, turning to plant a chaste kiss of her own on his lips.

“It was a direct translation, not sarcasm,” she told him, and he raised an eyebrow. “I’m a certified Hudson Translator, appointed by the queen herself,” she clarified, and watched as John tried—and failed— to keep a straight face.

“When did Mycroft appoint you as translator?” he asked, and she burst into giggles as she recalled John’s description of the hour or so he and a sheet-clad Sherlock had spent at Buckingham palace with the detective’s older brother.  John grinned at the success of his joke.

“The food’s getting cold,” Mrs. Hudson called, and Laura rolled her eyes as she stood and pulled John up with her. They entered the kitchen hand-in-hand, still grinning like fools, and the older woman’s expression brightened at the sight of their interwoven fingers and broad smiles. Laura caught sight of Sherlock’s light blue eyes flickering down to their hands before he gave a tiny snort and suddenly rose from his chair.

“I think I’ll be heading back upstairs,” Sherlock declared flatly as he placed his empty mug in the sink, and Laura’s face fell. Mrs. Hudson quickly moved to block the door before Sherlock could take more than two steps.

“Sit back down this instant,” she demanded with her hands placed firmly on her hips, and he hesitated for a moment before crossing the room to lean against the wall. Mrs. Hudson nodded as if his decision to stay made everything right with the world again, and John and Laura took the two open seats at the table as she served them dinner.

Sherlock continued to watch them from across the room, and Laura got the distinct feeling that he knew exactly what she and John had discussed during the conversation they’d tried to keep concealed from him. She glanced up at him every few seconds even as she ate and carried on a casual conversation with Mrs. Hudson, and she knew John was watching him too.

Mrs. Hudson still emitted cheer in waves, but all the mirth had drained from Laura and John and only continued to disappear as the meal continued. She wanted to shout at the detective that they were only trying to protect him, that they only wanted what was best for him and to help him see that Irene was toxic. But as Sherlock continued to observe them and they stared right back, Mrs. Hudson babbling on without a clue, Laura became more and more sure that all the shouting in the world wouldn’t really make any difference unless it came from Irene herself.

*~*~*~*~*

Laura hurried down the sidewalk, her spirits lifting despite the dreary weather as Speedy’s sand witch shop came into view.  She closed her umbrella before pushing open the door to 221, shrugging off her jacket to hang it beside Sherlock’s long black coat. Laura checked her phone just to make sure John hadn’t canceled their lunch date at the last minute as he often did, and when she didn’t find any disappointing messages she began her way up the staircase.

She didn’t hesitate before opening the door to 221B and entering the flat, her good mood adding an extra bounce to her step.  But her smile disappeared and she felt the floor tilt beneath her feet the moment she caught sight of the dark haired woman standing by Sherlock’s side. Laura let out a startled gasp and Irene turned to face her. Sherlock casually glanced over his shoulder in her direction while John stared at her with wide eyes from across the table.

Irene stepped forward and Laura instinctively stumbled away from her, her breath coming in short, shallow gasps. She’d known Irene was back, that she’d been alive the whole time, but seeing her sister here in the flesh was a far heavier blow than she’d anticipated.

“It’s good to see you, Laura,” Irene said as her lips spread into a smile, and for a moment, just the blink of an eye, Laura believed her. All the lies and deceptions were forgotten, and she was honestly convinced that her sister was pleased to finally see her after all these years of tense separation. But the realization that Irene had already begun manipulating her with the first words she’d said to her in person brought on a wave of self-loathing and sent Laura’s blood boiling.

Laura strode forward, reeled back, and slammed her fist into the side of Irene’s face with a desperate shout. Her sister stumbled backwards in surprise, her hand flying up to cup her cheek, and Laura tried her best to control her breathing as adrenaline flooded her veins. She’d never dreamed of assaulting her sister, but the pain in her knuckles was nothing compared to the intense satisfaction she now felt. While she couldn’t possibly have hurt Irene as much as her sister had hurt her, knowing she’d given Irene at least a little pain was enough to slightly placate her anger.

Laura looked up to see the two men staring at her; John appeared to be surprised but pleased, while Sherlock looked oddly disapproving. Laura found herself glaring at the taller man when she realized the robe Irene now wore most likely belonged to him; if he was letting Irene wear his clothes things had already gone far farther than she’d expected. Laura’s gaze was drawn back to Irene when the woman removed her hand from her face to reveal a small cut on her right cheek.

The sight of the blemish almost instantly reminded Laura of that first day she’d encountered Sherlock and John, as a nearly identical mark had adorned the detective’s cheek. Laura was supposed to have reconciled with Irene that day, to have at least tried to work out their issues and make their way back to being on speaking terms. But Irene had used her as a cover, had thrown their relationship under the bus once again in favor of delving into the world of criminal activity. Irene may have once wanted to reconcile with Laura, but that time had passed long ago, and Laura could no longer muster up even a shred of affection for this woman who’d betrayed her time and time again.

“I was ready to forgive you,” Laura said softly, careful not to mask her anger with her quiet tone, and Irene shifted back and forth on her bare feet. She looked as if she wanted to say something, but Laura had no desire to hear any more of Irene’s lies. “But you turned your back on me again, lied to me again, betrayed me again, and there’s no way I could ever forgive you now,” she said, her voice rising in volume as she continued. She was shouting now, but she didn’t care if Mrs. Hudson was disturbed by her angry words.

“I never meant to—“

“You need to leave,” Laura said sternly, interrupting Irene’s pleading words to gesture to the still open door of the flat. “Now.”

“She stays,” Sherlock said as he rose from his seat, straightening his blazer as he regarded Laura with cold blue eyes. His voice was firm and commanding, but Laura had no intention of giving into his mislead demands. She turned to John for help, only to see him look from Irene to Sherlock with a furrowed brow and pursed lips, as if he was entirely engaged in solving a mystery of his own. She tried to catch his eye, but when it became clear that John was preoccupied, she returned her attention to Sherlock.

“I’m only trying to protect you,” she said earnestly, and she wished she shared Irene’s powers of persuasion as Sherlock remained entirely unconvinced.

“She deserves protection as well,” Sherlock said with a flat tone. Irene, who now leaned on the table at his side, raised her eyebrows challengingly as she watched her younger sister with a sly smile.

“But she isn’t in any danger,” Laura cried, looking to John once again in the hope that he’d back her up based on their discussion the night before in Mrs. Hudson’s living room. But the army doctor remained infuriatingly silent. Laura let out a furious sigh, clenching her fists in frustration. “You can’t trust her! Don’t listen to her, don’t help her. Just get her out of your life before she ruins everything,” Laura said, her voice breaking on the last word.

But Laura’s desperate last plea for Sherlock’s safety was entirely ignored as the detective returned to his computer without another word. Irene gave her a mocking little shrug before turning away from Laura, placing her hand on Sherlock’s shoulder as she leaned close over him from behind. Laura stood dumbfounded for a moment, her mind racing as she scrambled for any argument that might convince Sherlock to abandon his obsession with Irene and listen to reason.

Her eyes instinctively drifted to John, the one man she was convinced Sherlock would listen to above all others—the one man who’d remained silent throughout the entire ordeal. He still looked troubled as he watched Sherlock and Irene, but Laura ignored his displeased expression as she marched across the room and grabbed him by the arm.

“We need to talk,” she said tensely, and John looked up in surprise. He opened his mouth as if he wanted to argue, but Laura shot him a fierce look and his lagging jaw snapped shut. After a moment of hesitation John allowed himself to be dragged from his chair and into one of the flat’s hallways for a few choice words.

Laura dropped John’s arm and stood with her arms crossed tightly over her chest as she leaned against the wall and gave him her darkest glare. To her annoyance, John didn’t even seem to notice; he constantly cast worried glances over her shoulder towards the living room, complete oblivious to her furious gaze.

“Why didn’t you say anything,” she hissed angrily, and she could just make out the way his eyes widened in surprise in the darkness of the hallway.

“There wasn’t anything left to be said,” he told her with a confused frown, and Laura stared at him incredulously, throwing her arms into the air.

“You could have just said the same thing I did! He would’ve listened to you, John,” she cried, but John shook his head, his eyes fixed on the living room once again.

“I don’t think anything I’d said would’ve changed a thing,” he said, his voice far more forlorn than Laura had expected. It took her a moment to realize that Irene’s return didn’t merely affect her and Sherlock, and that it really wasn’t fair for her to expect John to react as if he was merely an outside party. His best friend was being swindled by a conniving, heartless woman, and here she was blaming him for not putting a stop to it. John was clearly convinced that there was nothing he could do to stop Sherlock from falling even farther under Irene’s power, and Laura taking her rage out on him wasn’t helping anyone.

“John, she’s not going to take him from you,” Laura assured him, rubbing her hand comfortingly along his arm, her fingers stroking the fabric of her favorite black and white striped jumper. John looked over at her with dejection written all over his face.

“How do you know? I mean it looks like she already has,” John said miserably, and Laura couldn’t help but think how odd it was for her to be the one comforting John instead of the other way around.

“Because we aren’t going to let her,” Laura said definitively, and his sadness seemed to recede a little. “But if we’re going to stop her, you have to stay focused,” she added, and John raised his eyebrows with a growing smile.

“Says the woman who just punched her in the face?” he asked teasingly. “That was bloody amazing, I might add,” he said, and Laura waved away his comment while trying to hide her smile.

“That’s in the past. Right now we have to concentrate on building a case Sherlock can’t dismiss—we need to gather facts even he can’t disregard,” she said strongly, and John nodded, now wholly focused on the conversation at hand. “What has Irene told Sherlock? What does he think she needs protection from?” she asked. John quickly filled her in on Irene’s story of needing Sherlock to help her decode a stolen sequence of letters and numbers so she could use the information as protection.

“Did she say anything about being afraid of Moriarty finding her?” she asked, and when John shook his head Laura felt dread pool in the pit of her stomach. “He said he was after her before she died, remember? He broke into my house and nearly strangled me to find out where she was. But now that she’s back she doesn’t say anything about being afraid of him finding her? That isn’t right,” Laura said quietly, and John frowned at her as her words slowly sunk in.

“Hold on,” he said, stepping forward and lowering his voice as well. “So you think this proves what you talked about last night? That if Moriarty wasn’t really after her, then they must be working together?” he asked incredulously, and Laura nodded slowly. “Jesus, that’s messed up,” he breathed, and Laura didn’t disagree.

“It’s not as if she’s had my safety as her first priority in the past; this is only a small step up from the way she treated me before,” Laura reasoned, and John shook his head with a disgusted expression.

“So basically you’re saying she got Moriarty to attack you so we would just assume that he was the one who’d killed her. But what would be the point of that?”

“That way her name would be totally clear when she came back. The fact that Moriarty attacked me ‘proves’ that she faked her death to keep herself safe, not for some other reason; no one would ever assume that a woman would hire someone to strangle her sister just for an alibi. She’s got the perfect cover.”

“Then what was she trying to cover up? What kind of heist would be so important that she’d go through all this trouble?” he asked, and Laura shrugged.

“I have no idea. But whatever it is, it’s big. So big that everything will go to hell if Sherlock doesn’t get his head out of the clouds.”

“So how do we tell him?” John asked, and Laura turned to face the living room where Irene was standing painfully close to the detective.

“I’m sure he already knows, deep down. The facts are all there, he just refuses to put them together,” she said. Even as she spoke Laura was reminded of a seventeen year old girl, one who’d been convinced the man who was hurting her loved her even though all the evidence suggested otherwise. Her stomach twisted uncomfortably as she watched her sister with Sherlock, watched as Irene used the same tactics on the smitten detective that Sebastian had used on her all those years ago.

“But we’re going to make him see it,” she heard John say behind her, and Laura took his hand in hers as she leaned back against his chest.

“Yes, we will. We have to.”


End file.
